* 


FRANCIS  &  CO.'S 

CABINET  LIBRARY 

OF 

CHOICE  PROSE  AND  POETRY. 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  POETS. 


Digitized  by 

the  Internet  Archive 

in  2014 

https://archive.org/details/thoughtsonpoets01tuck 


THOUGHTS 

o  H 

THE  POETS: 


BY 

HENRY  T.  TUCKERMAN. 


and  philosophers  are  the  unacknowledged  legislators  of  the  world.** 

Shelley 


THIRD  EDITION. 


NEW-YORK: 

S.  FRANCIS  &  CO.,  2  52  BROADWAY 
boston: 

J-  H.    FRANCIS,  128  WASHINGTON-STREET, 

1  8  4  8. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  iu  the  year  1846, 
BY  C.  8    FRANCIS  *.  CO. 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Southern  District  rf  New-York. 


Printed  by 
MUNROE  &.  FRANCIS, 
Boston. 


CONTENTS. 


Petrarch          ......  7 

Goldsmith     .           ......  30 

Gray        .   U 

Collins         .  .  .  .  •  .  .64 

Pope   73 

Cowper         .,.••.«  S3 

Thomson  .......  94 

Young          .......  101 

Alfieri    .......  HI 

Crabbe          .......  122 

Shelley   .......  137 

Hunt   154 

Byron       .                     .....  1G5 

Moore           .......  175 

Rogers      .......  183 

Burns            .          .          .          .          .          .          •  193 

Campbell           ......  205 

Wordsworth  .......  214 

Coleridge           ......  226 

Keais   238 

Barry  Cornwall         .....  251 

Mrs.  Hemans                               ....  262 

Tennyson  .......  273 

Miss  Barrett         ......  281 

Drake      .......  290 

Bryaxjt        .  .  .  .  .  .  .303 


PETRARCH. 


The  traveller  between  Rome  and  Florence,  by  the  Per 
dgia  road,  usually  makes  a  noon-halt  at  Arezzo ;  and  the 
ragged  urchins  of  that  decayed  town,  press  eagerly  around 
him  and  vociferously  contend  for  the  honour  of  being  his 
guide  to  the  house  of  Petrarch.  In  a  few  moments  he 
stands  before  a  homely,  grey  building,  in  a  narrow  and 
rude  thoroughfare,  upon  the  front  of  which  is  a  marble 
tablet  that  proclaims  it  to  be  the  humble  dwelling  where 
the  poet  was  born,  July  20th,  1304.  An  incident  like 
this  is  apt  to  give  an  almost  magical  impulse  to  the  wan- 
derer's thoughts.  As  he  proceeds  on  his  way  through  a 
lonely  country,  over  which  broods  the  mellow  atmosphere 
of  the  South,  he  is  long  haunted  by  the  tale  of  human 
love  thus  vividly  recalled  to  his  memory.  He  muses, 
perhaps,  with  delight  and  wonder,  upon  the  celestial  power 
of  genius  which  can  thus  preserve  for  the  reverence  and 
sympathy  of  after  generations,  one  among  the  countless 
experiences  of  the  heart.  Literature  has  performed  no 
more  holy  or  delightful  tasks  than  those  dedicated  to  Af- 
fection. The  minds  are  few  that  can  bring  home  to  them- 
selves, with  any  cordial  or  benign  effect,  either  the  les- 
sons of  history  or  the  maxims  of  philosophical  wisdom. 
Uncommon  Jearness  and  strength  of  intellect  are  neces- 
sary in  order  to  appropriate  such  teachings.  But  the 
heart,  with  it?  ardent  impulses  and  divine  instincts — its 
pleadings  for  sympathy,  its  tender  regrets,  its  insatiable 


8 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


desires,  its  infinite  capacity  for  devotedness  and  self-denial 
— the  heart  is  the  grand  interpreter  of  its  own  rich  memo- 
rials. This  it  is  which  renders  Petrarch  so  near  to  us  in 
feeling,  although  removed  by  centuries  from  this  our  ac- 
tual era.  This  it  is  which  makes  the  transatlantic  pilgrim 
gaze  with  emotion  upon  the  spot  of  his  nativity,  and  feel 
akin  to  him  in  being  chartered  with  a  similar,  though 
perhaps  undeveloped  power  and  "  strong  necessity  of  lov- 
ing." It  is  not  like  a  dry  antiquarian  research  to  sum- 
mon his  person  and  character  before  us.  As  a  man  of 
civic  and  social  responsibilities,  he  belongs  to  the  thir- 
teenth century ;  as  a  lover,  he  is  a  citizen  of  all  time  and 
a  brother  of  all  living  men  who  find  their  chief  joy,  trial 
and  inspiration,  in  the  exercise  and  interchange  of  senti- 
ment. 

"  They  keep  his  dust  in  Arqua  where  he  died  ; 

The  mountain-village  where  his  latter  days 

Went  down  the  vale  of  years  ;  and  'tis  their  pride — 

An  honest  pride,  and  let  it  be  their  praise, 

To  offer  to  the  passing  stranger's  gaze 

His  mansion  and  his  sepulchre ;  both  plain 

And  venerably  simple,  such  as  raise 

A  feeling  more  accordant  with  his  strain, 

Than  if  a  pyramid  formed  his  monumental  fane." 

It  is  not  our  intention  to  discuss  the  literary  merits  of 
Petrarch.  This  has  been  done  too  well  and  too  often  al- 
ready. It  is  to  the  spirit  which  dictated  and  which  has 
long  been  embalmed  in  his  Sonnets,  that  we  desired  to 
call  attention.  Frequent  doubts  have,  indeed,  been  cast 
upon  the  sincerity  of  these  effusions.  This,  we  imagine, 
results  from  the  vain  attempt  to  catch  their  legitimate 
meaning  by  a  consecutive  perusal.  Devoted  as  they  are 
to  one  subject,  and  cast  in  the  same  verbal  form,  a  mono- 
tonous and  artificial  impression  is  the  natural  consequence 
of  reading  one  after  another,  like  the  stanzas  of  a  long 


PETRARCH. 


9 


poem.  To  be  enjoyed  and  appreciated,  they  should  be 
separately  considered.  Each  sonnet  was  the  expression 
of  a-  particular  state  of  feeling ;  and  it  was  not  until  after 
the  poet's  death  that  they  were  collected.  Written  at 
various  times  and  in  different  moods,  but  always  to  give 
utterance  to  some  particular  thought  or  fantasy  having 
reference  to  his  love,  there  is  necessarily  more  or  less 
sameness  pervading  the  whole.  It  is  undeniable  that 
many  of  the  conceits  are  frigid,  and  betray  the  ingenuity 
of  fancy  rather  than  the  ardour  of  passion ;  but  these 
arose  from  the  habit  of  "  thinking  too  precisely" — a  char- 
acteristic of  all  meditative  beings,  and  which  is  so  admi- 
rably illustrated  in  Hamlet's  speculations.  It  should  also 
be  borne  in  mind  that  Petrarch's  inducement  thus  elabo- 
rately to  depict  the  varied  effects  of  love  upon  his  nature, 
was  to  give  vent  to  emotions  which  were  denied  any  other 
channel  of  escape : 

"  La  vive  voci  m'  erano  interditti, 

Ond'  io  gridai  con  carta  e  con  inchiostro."  * 

It  is  evident  that  he  wrote  chiefly  from  retrospection, 
and  failed  in  the  command  of  his  mind,  when  under  the 
immediate  influence  of  deep  tenderness  or  baffled  desire : 

"  Piu  volte  incomminciai  di  scriver  versi, 
Ma  la  penna  e  la  mano  e'  l'intelletto 
Rimaser  vinti  nel  primier  assalto."  f 

This  sufficiently  proves  the  genuineness  of  his  inspira 
tion.  His  allusions  to  the  laurel-tree  in  reference  to  the 
name  of  his  beloved,  to  the  window  at  which  he  had  seen 
her  seated,  to  the  waters  beside  which  she  had  reposed, 
to  the  places  in  which  he  encountered  her,  and  to  her  dress 

*  The  living  voice  was  denied  me,  hence  I  sought  utterance  in 
writing. 

f  Often  I  began  to  write  verses,  but  the  pen,  the  hand  ^nd  the 
mind  were  overcome  at  the  first  attempt. 


10 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


and  the  colour  of  her  eyes  and  hair,  her  gait,  her  saluta- 
tions, her  smile,  and  her  glances,  are  but  the  native  over- 
flowings of  an  ardent  mind.  It  is  the  effect  of  idegli'y 
not  only  to  exalt  the  actual  into  infinite  possibility,  but  to 
reveal  in  detail  every  circumstance  and  association  which 
Love  has  made  sacred.  Even  those  who  can  scarcely  be 
deemed  imaginative,  are  sensible  of  the  magic  agency  of 
sounds,  perfumes  and  the  most  ordinary  visible  objects 
connected,  in  their  memories,  with  persons  or  localities 
singularly  endeared.  It  is  only  requisite  to  extend  this 
familiar  principle  to  understand  why  Petrarch  dwells  with 
such  fondness  on  the  most  trivial  associations.  They 
helped  him  to  recall  the  past,  to  bring  more  distinctly  be- 
fore him  the  image  of  Laura,  and  to  realize  more  com- 
pletely the  delicious  though  tyrannical  sway  of  Love. 
The  same  explanation  may  be  given  of  his  constant  ap- 
peals to  Nature.  The  heart  is  thrown  upon  itself  in  love 
as  in  grief.  Few,  if  any,  fellow-beings,  however  near 
and  dear,  are  fitted  to  share  the  confidence  of  our  inmost 
affections.  They  have  a  sacredness,  a  delicacy,  an  indi- 
viduality which  makes  us  shrink  from  exposing  them 
even  to  friendly  observation  : 

"  Not  easily  forgiven 
Are  those,  who,  setting  wide  the  doors  that  bar 
The  secret  bridal-chambers  of  the  heart, 
Let  in  the  day." 

The  poet  needed  relief  when  denied  sympathy,  and 
therefore  he  apostrophised  Nature,  whose  silent  beauty 
wins  but  never  betrays.  It  is  worthy  of  remark  that 
Petrarch  was  a  skeptic  in  regard  to  love,  as  an  enduring 
and  deep  principle  of  the  human  soul,  until  his  own  ex- 
perience converted  him  so  effectually  to  the  faith. 

 "  e  quel  che  in  me  non  era, 

Mi  pareva  un  miracolo  in  altrui." 


PETRARCH. 


n 


Many  live  and  die  knowing  nothing  of  love  except 
through  their  intellect.  Their  ideas  on  the  subject  are 
fanciful,  because  it  has  never  been  revealed  by  conscious- 
ness. Yet  it  were  to  question  the  benignity  of  God,  to 
believe  that  an  element  of  our  being  so  operative  and 
subtle,  and  one  that  abounds  chiefly  in  the  good  and  the 
gifted,  is  of  light  import  or  not  susceptible  of  being  ex- 
plained by  reason,  justified  by  conscience,  and  hallowed 
by  religion,  and  thus  made  to  bear  a  harvest  not  only  of 
delight  but  of  virtue.  Love,  Petrarch  maintains,  is  the 
crowning  grace  of  humanity,  the  holiest  right  of  the  soul, 
the  golden  link  which  binds  us  to  duty  and  truth,  the  re- 
deeming principle  that  chiefly  reconciles  the  heart  to  life, 
and  is  prophetic  of  eternal  good.  It  is  a  blessing  or  a 
bane,  a  weakness  or  a  strength,  a  fearful  or  a  glorious 
experience,  according  to  the  soul  in  which  it  is  engen- 
dered. Let  us  endeavour  to  define  its  action  and  vindi- 
cate its  worth,  as  set  forth  in  the  Sonnets  of  Petrarch. 

All  noble  beings  live  in  their  affections.  While  this 
important  fact  has  been  ever  illustrated  by  poets,  it  is 
seldom  fully  recognized  in  moral  systems  or  popular  the- 
ology. Yet,  if  we  would  truly  discern  the  free,  genuine 
elements  of  character,  the  history  of  the  heart  affords  the 
only  authentic  ground  of  judgment.  Love  has  been,  and 
is,  so  mightily  abused,  that  in  the  view  of  superficial 
reasoners  it  becomes  identified  rather  with  feebleness  than 
strength.  Yet,  in  point  of  fact,  its  highest  significance 
can  alone  be  realized  by  natures  of  singular  depth  and 
exaltation.  To  the  unperverted  soul,  instead  of  a  pas- 
time it  is  a  discipline.  Once  elevated  from  a  blind  in- 
stinct to  a  conscious  principle,  it  is  the  mighty  tide  which 
sways  all  that  is  solemn  and  eternal  in  life.  To  love,  in 
one  sense,  is,  indeed,  little  more  than  an  animal  necessity ; 
but  to  love  nobly,  profoundly — to  love,  as  Madame  de 
Stael  expresses  it,  "  at  once  with  the  mind  and  with  the 


12 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


heart,"  to  dedicate  to  another  mature  sympathies,  is  the 
noblest  function  of  a  human  being.  The  fever  of  passion, 
the  ignoble  motives,  the  casual  impulses  which  belong  to 
our  nature,  blend,  it  is  true,  with  the  exercise  of  all  affec- 
tion, but  love,vin  its  deepest  and  genuine  import,  is  the 
highest  and  most  profound  interest  of  existence.  This 
is  a  truth  but  imperfectly  understood  ;  but  there  are  few 
spirits  so  utterly  bereft  of  celestial  affinities  as  not  to  re- 
spond more  or  less  cordially,  to  every  sincere  appeal  to  a 
capacity  so  divine.  All  the  folly  of  vain  imaginations, 
all  the  coarseness  of  vulgar  sensuality,  all  the  scorn  of 
mental  hardihood,  while  they  profane  the  name,  can 
never  violate  the  sacred  realities  of  love.  There  have 
been,  and  there  ever  will  be  earnest  and  uncompromising 
hearts,  who  bravely  vindicate  a  faith  too  native  and  actu- 
ating ever  to  be  eradicated.  Such  natures  can  only  rea- 
lize themselves  through  love,  and  in  proportion  to  their 
integrity  will  be  their  consciousness  of  the  glory  of  this 
attribute.  They  intuitively  anticipate  its  pervading  influ- 
ence upon  their  character  and  happiness.  They  feel 
that  within  it  lies  the  vital  points  of  their  destiny,  and 
through  it  their  access  to  truth.  The  world  may  long 
present  but  glimpses  of  what  they  ever  watch  to  descry. 
Life  may  seem  barren  of  a  good  never  absent  from  their 
inward  sense.  At  times,  from  very  weariness,  they  may 
be  half  inclined  to  believe  that  the  love  for  which  they 
pray,  is  but  a  poetic  invention,  having  no  actual  type. 
Witnessing  so  much  apparent  renunciation,  they  may,  at 
last,  regard  themselves  as  vain  dreamers,  and  look  back, 
with  bitter  regret  upon  years  of  self-delusion.  But  the 
great  want,  the  haunting  vision,  the  prophetic  need,  assert 
themselves  still  ;  and  when,  through  self-denial  and  fer- 
vent trust,  the  dawn  glimmers  upon  their  souls,  the  lonely 
vigil  and  restless  fears  of  the  night  are  forgotten  in  "  a 
peace  which  the  world  can  neither  give  nor  take  away." 


PETRARCH. 


13 


To  some  minds  it  may  appear  sacrilegious  thus  to  inden- 
tify  love  with  religion,  but  the  sentiments  rightly  under- 
stood, are  too  intimately  allied  to  be  easily  divided.  It  is 
through  the  outward  universe  that  natural  theology  points 
us  to  a  Supreme  Intelligence ;  and  it  is  through  the 
creature  that  spirits  of  lofty  mould  most  nearly  approach 
the  Creator.  Coleridge  describes  love  as  the  absorption 
of  self  in  an  idea  dearer  than  self.  This  is  doubtless  the 
only  process  by  which  the  problem  of  human  life  is  solved 
to  exalted  natures.  It  is  in  vain  that  you  bid  them  find 
content,  either  in  the  pleasures  of  sense  or  the  abstractions 
of  wisdom,  however  keen  their  perceptions,  or  ardent 
their  passions.  They  know  themselves  born  to  find 
completion  through  another.  A  subtle  and  pleading  ex- 
pectancy foretells  the  advent  of  a  Messiah.  They  seek 
not,  but  wait.  It  is  no  romantic  vision,  no  extravagant 
desire,  but  a  clear  and  deep  conviction  that  speaks  in  their 
bosoms.  This  is  the  germ  of  the  sweetest  flower  that 
shall  adorn  their  being ;  this  is  their  innate  pledge  of 
immortality,  and  ceaselessly  invokes  them  to  self-respect 
and  glory. 

There  is  something  essentially  shallow  in  the  play  of 
character,  until  deep  feeling  gives  it  shape  and  intensity. 
The  office  of  love  is  to  induce  a  strong  and  permanent 
motive,  and  it  is  this  process  which  concentrates  all  the 
faculties  of  the  soul.  Hence  the  satisfaction  which  follows ; 
— a  condition  wholly  different  from  what  was  previously 
regarded  as  enjoyment.  Through  vanity  and  the  senses, 
partial  delight  may  have  been  obtained  ;  but  it  was  a 
graft  upon,  rather  than  a  product  of  the  heart.  The  bles- 
sedness of  true  love  springs  from  the  soul  itself,  and  is 
felt  to  be  its  legitimate  and  holiest  fruit.  Thus,  and  thus 
alone,  is  human  nature  richly  developed,  and  the  best  in- 
terests of  life  wisely  embraced.  Shadows  give  way  to 
substance,  vague  wishes  to  permanent  aims,  indifferent 


14 


THOUGHTS    ON   THE  POETS. 


moods  to  endearing  associations,  and  vain  desire  to  a 
"  hope  full  of  immortality."  Man  is  for  the  first  time 
revealed  to  himself,  and  absolutely  known  to  another  ; 
for  entire  sympathy,  not  friendly  observation,  is  the  key 
to  our  individual  natures;  and  when  this  has  fairly 
opened  the  sacred  portal,  we  are  alone  no  more  forever! 

Petrarch  affords  a  good  illustration  of  this  subject,  be- 
cause he  has  bequeathed  a  record  of  his  experience, 
which  fame  has  rendered  classical.  In  him,  as  in  every 
one,  the  influence  of  the  sentiment  was  modified  by  par- 
ticular traits  of  character.  It  is  not  requisite  that  we  re- 
gard him  as  the  most  unexceptionable  example  of  a  lover, 
in  order  to  avail  ourselves  of  the  autobiography  of  the 
heart  which  he  left,  behind  him.  It  is  enough  to  acknowl- 
edge the  fact  that  his  career  was  mainly  swayed  by  a 
feeling  which,  in  most  men,  exerts  but  a  temporary  and 
casual  agency  ;  and  that  the  most  genial  outpourings  of 
his  soul  have  exclusive  reference  to  its  phases.  It  is  not 
pretended  that  he  is  faultless;  but  the  good  taste  of  ages 
has  hallowed  his  effusions,  and,  on  this  account,  they 
furnish  an  authoritative  exposition.  In  order  to  estimate 
aright  these  revelations,  let  us  glance  at  their  author  as 
a  man. 

He  was,  then,  in  relation  to  society,  one  of  the  most 
important  personages  of  his  time.  With  many  his  name 
is  merely  associated  with  the  idle  dreams  of  a  minstrel, 
and  his  existence  is  recalled  as  that  of  an  imaginative 
devotee,  who  lived  chiefly  to  indulge  his  private  tastes. 
That  the  case  was  far  otherwise  is  indisputable.  Few 
prominent  men  of  that  era  so  richly  deserve  the  title  of 
patriot.  His  love  of  country  was  fervent  and  wise,  and 
his  efforts  in  her  behalf  unremitted.  The  frequent  and 
momentous  political  embassies  to  which  he  was  appointed, 
and  the  cheerful  zeal  with  which  they  were  fulfilled,  is 
proof  enough  of  his  political  talent  and  noble  enterprise. 


PETRARCH. 


15 


The  high  consideration  he  enjoyed,  both  with  princes  and 
people,  his  steady  friendship  with  individuals  of  high 
rank  and  influence,  the  interest  he  manifested  in  Rienzi's 
unsuccessful  efforts  to  restore  Italy  to  freedom,  his  volu- 
minous correspondence  on  questions  relating  to  the  public 
weal,  evince,  among  other  facts,  that  he  enacted  no 
useless  or  ignoble  part  on  the  world's  broad  arena.  Nor  . 
is  this  all.  If  Petrarch  excelled  the  mass  of  every 
age  in  the  refinement  and  earnestness  of  his  affections, 
he  was  also  far  beyond  his  own  in  knowledge  and 
liberality.  We  can  trace  in  his  writings  the  slumbering 
embers  of  the  flame  afterwards  kindled  by  Luther,  and 
the  same  devotion  to  liberty,  which  in  the  progress  of 
time,  found  scope  and  realization  on  this  continent.  The 
great  principles  of  free  government  and  religious  inquiry, 
that  in  our  day  have  become  actual  experiments,  are 
discoverable  in  the  ardent  speculations  and  elevated 
desires  of  the  bard  of  Laura.  He  was  the  uncompro- 
mising advocate  of  civil  and  ecclesiastical  reform,  and 
threw  all  the  weight  of  his  literary  reputation  into  the 
scale  of  progress.  This  end  he  promoted  more  signally 
by  learned  researches  and  the  circulation  of  ancient 
manuscripts,  so  as  to  become  identified  with  the  revival 
of  letters.  These  objects  were  methodically  pursued 
throughout  his  life.  They  formed  no  small  portion  of 
that  external  activity,  which  is  so  often  wasted  upon 
selfibh  objects,  and  this  is  in  itself  sufficiently  glorious  to 
vindicate  his  life  from  the  charge  of  inutility. 

In  estimating  his  moral  traits,  it  should  be  remem- 
bered that  the  sunshine  of  fame  made  him  conspicuous, 
and  subjected  his  behaviour  to  a  keener  scrutiny  than  is 
the  lot  of  the  obscure.  We  may  safely  deem  the  judg- 
ment of  contemporaries  critical  and  searching,  especially 
as  it  is  the  usual  fate  of  superior  gifts  to  attract  a  large 
share  of  envy  as  well  as  admiration.    The  biographers 


16 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


of  Petrarch  have  gleaned  but  two  authentic  charges, 
which  can,  even  in  the  view  of  more  recent  and  enlight- 
ened moralists,  sully  the  pervading  brightness  of  his 
character.  He  was  the  father  of  two  illegitimate 
children — for  whose  temporal  and  spiritual  welfare  he 
amply  provided.  Such  a  fact,  in  those  times,  was  not 
only  regarded  as  venial  from  the  license  of  manners  that 
prevailed,  but  considered  especially  excusable  in  church- 
men, on  account  of  their  obligation  to  celibacy.  All 
testimonies  concur  in  representing  his  habitual  course  as 
remarkably  exemplary,  and  the  disgust  and  indignation 
he  evidently  feels  at  the  dissolute  manners  of  the  papal 
court,  as  well  as  long  years  of  pure  and  devoted  love  and 
studious  retirement,  assure  us  that  Petrarch's  soul  was 
far  above  the  baseness  of  habitual  dissipation.  He  may 
have  lapsed  from  strict  virtue,  but  he  never  lost  for  her 
either  his  allegiance  or  sympathy.  In  an  age  famous  for 
libertinism  and  courtly  adulation,  he  preserved  to  an 
extraordinary  degree,  his  self-respect  and  purity  of  heart. 
His  native  instincts  rendered  the  pursuit  of  wisdom, 
communion  with  the  great  and  good  of  past  times,  the 
society  of  the  learned  and  gifted,  and  the  study  of  nature 
infinitely  more  attractive  than  any  less  ennobling  plea- 
sures. Compared  with  those  around  him,  his  example 
was  worthy  of  all  praise,  and  a  sincere  vein  of  conscien- 
tious sensibility  and  repentant  musing,  mingles  with  and 
lends  pathos  and  dignity  to  his  strains  of  love.  The 
other  charge  which  has  been  preferred  against  him  is 
vanity.  This,  however,  seems  from  his  own  confession 
and  the  opinion  of  others,  to  have  been  a  youthful  weak- 
ness, chiefly  manifested  by  a  fondness  for  dress,  which 
disappeared  as  soon  as  his  mind  and  heart  became  inter- 
ested. He  is  described  as  quite  indifferent  to  wealth,  and 
of  a  singularly  reserved  and  meek  demeanour.  He  was 
by  nature  and  habit  a  severe  student,  and  delighted  to 


PETRARCH. 


17 


meditate  in  the  open  air,  and  alternately  lead  the  life  of 
a  recluse  and  a  traveller,  filling  his  mind  with  knowledge 
and  reflection,  and  his  heart  with  thoughts  of  love  and 
piety. 

Such  was  the  man  who  on  the  morning  of  Good  Fri- 
day, at  the  church  of'  Santa  Clara,  at  Avignon,  met 
Laura;  their  eyes  encountered,  and  from  that  moment 
the  destiny  of  his  affections  was  sealed.  The  very  idea 
suggested  by  this  fact, — that  of  love  at  first  sight,  doubt- 
less appears  to  the  majority  of  readers,  particularly  those 
of  northern  origin,  a  piece  of  absurd  romance.  Yet,  let 
us  endeavour  to  regard  it  calmly  and  thoughtfully,  and 
discover  if  there  be  no  actual  foundation  for  such  an 
experience.  Truthful  human  beings,  whom  the  world 
has  not  perverted,  express  in  their  looks  and  manners, 
their  genuine  souls.  Where  there  is  depth  of  feeling, 
and  pride  of  character,  this  natural  language  is  still  more 
direct  and  impressive.  Such  individuals,  indeed,  habitu- 
ally conceal  their  moods  and  sentiments  under  a  veil  of 
passionless  reserve,  or  animal  gaiety;  and  when  this  is 
drawn  aside,  their  tones  and  features  only  speak  with 
more  eloquent  significance  from  the  previous  restraint. 
No  medium  is  more  true  and  earnest  in  thus  conveying 
the  heart's  language  than  the  eye.  The  cold  and  worldly 
may  have  deadened  its  beams  by  selfishness  and  cunning, 
and  the  sensualist  can  only  summon  thither  an  earthly 
and  base  fire  ;  but  they  of  child-like  frankness  and 
undimmed  enthusiasm,  may  utter  by  a  glance  more  than 
words  could  unfold.  It  is  then  not  a  mere  vagary  of 
imagination,  but  a  rational  and  perfectly  credible  thing, 
that  the  meeting  of  the  eyes  of  two  candid,  noble  beings, 
should  reveal  them  essentially  to  each  other ;  and  such, 
we  doubt  not,  was  the  case  with  Petrarch  and  Laura. 
A  very  important  principle  is  involved  in  such  an 
incident.  It  proves  that  Love,  in  its  highest  sense,  is 
2 


IS 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


properly  Recognition.  Any  man  of  winning  address  and 
knowledge  of  the  world,  may,  by  appeals  to  the  passions, 
the  interests  or  the  unappropriated  tenderness  of  a  guile- 
less, confiding  woman,  win  her  to  himself.  But  let  him 
not  imagine  that  such  an  outrage  to  the  majesty  of  Love, 
will  secure  to  him  its  richest  fruits.  His  pride  may  be 
gratified  by  the  dependence  of  a  fair  and  gentle  being, 
and  her  endearments  may  afford  a  delightful  solace  in  his 
listless  hours.  Over  her  person,  her  time,  her  actions,  he 
may  exercise  a  permanent  control.  If  she  be  infirm  of 
purpose,  she  may  become  a  domestic  slave,  the  crea- 
ture or,  at  least,  the  honoured  pet  of  her  liege  lord.  The 
mass  of  women  may,  and  probably  do  not  feel  conscious 
that  their  dearest  rights  have  been  thus  invaded  ;  and 
men,  in  general,  doubtless  think  that  their  disinterested- 
ness is  sufficiently  indicated  by  providing  all  the  external 
sources  of  comfort  for  the  objects  of  their  choice.  There 
is  but  a  limited  degree  of  conscious  wrong  on  either  side. 
When  no  deep  affections,  no  intense  sympathies  crave 
gratification,  society  gains  much,  and  the  individual 
loses  nothing  by  conventional  alliances.  But  in  questions 
of  this  nature,  it  must  be  ever  remembered,  that  there 
are  here  and  there,  scattered  among  the  multitude  of 
human  beings,  souls  that  do  not  slumber,  hearts  that 
have  burst  the  chrysalis  of  vegetative  life,  and  feel  the 
tides  of  individual  desires,  hopes,  and  aspirations  fear- 
fully sway  their  pulses.  Sacred  are  the  pure  instincts, 
holy  before  God,  if  not  before  man,  the  spiritual  necessi- 
ties of  such  as  these.  If  self-knowledge  has  come  too 
late,  if  their  outward  fate  is  sealed  before  their  inward 
wants  have  been  revealed  to  their  own  consciousness, 
then  to  religion  and  self-control  must  they  look  to  enable 
them  to  fulfil  the  letter  of  the  bond.  Yet,  in  so  doing, 
if  they  possess  any  true  depth  of  character,  they  will 
never   compromise   their  highest  privilege ;  they  will 


PETRARCH. 


19 


never  profane  the  sentiment  of  love  by  hypocrisy ;  they 
will  recognize  and  rejoice  in  their  ideal  when  once 
encountered.  In  the  solemn  privacy  of  their  bosoms, 
will  be  cherished  the  being  to  whom  their  hearts  went 
instinctively  forth.  For  the  sake  of  this  pure  and  deep 
sentiment,  they  will  be  faithful  to  outward  duty,  calm 
and  trusting,  and  maintain  self-respect  and  hope  un- 
stained. Tennyson  has  drawn  a  portrait  bitterly  true  to 
experience,  of  the  influence  of  uncongenial  bonds  upon 
a  large  class  of  women,  in  "  Locksley  Hall."  But  all  of 
the  sex  are  not  the  mere  passive  victims  of  habit  and 
circumstance.  A  few  peerless  exceptions  really  live, — 
women,  who  through  remarkable  spirituality  of  character, 
or  firm  will,  united  to  fine  moral  perceptions,  prove 
superior  to  outward  fate,  and  never  permit  the  temple  of 
their  hearts  to  be  crossed,  save  by  the  one,  who,  from 
affinity  of  soul,  is  an  authorized  and  welcome  guest. 
There  is  a  grandeur  in  such  vindication  of  rights,  too 
holy  for  human  law  to  protect,  but,  at  the  same  time,  too 
ennobling  and  heavenly  for  virtue  to  abandon. — 

"  Patience,  quiet,  toil,  denial, — 
These  though  hard,  are  good  for  man  ; 
And  the  martyred  spirit's  trial 
Gains  it  more  than  passion  can." 

It  is  on  these  principles  that  we  account  for  the  con- 
duct of  Laura — a  subject  of  endless  discussion  among 
the  critics  of  Petrarch.  The  idea,  that  his  love  was 
wholly  unreciprocated,  is  contradicted  by  the  very  nature 
of  things.  The  truth  is,  a  degree  of  mutual  sentiment 
is  absolutely  necessary  to  keep  affection  alive  for  a  great 
length  of  time.  It  is  true  we  hear  of  instances  tha* 
seem,  at  a  superficial  view,  to  justify  a  different  conclu- 
sion ;  but,  generally  speaking,  the  martyrs  to  such  vain 
devotion  at  last  discover  that  their  passion  originated  in 


20 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


the  imagination,  not  the  heart.  There  are  evidences 
enough  in  the  Sonnets  of  Petrarch,  that  his  love  was  re- 
turned ;  and  we  can  scarcely  conceive  that  a  feeling  of 
this  kind,  toward  such  a  man,  if  once  excited  should  be 
lukewarm  or  ill-defined.  He  speaks  of  Laura's  "  amo- 
roso sguardo,"  (loving  glance)  and  of  her  turning  pale  at 
hearing  of  his  intended  absence.  The  very  complaints 
he  breathes  of  her  pride,  coldness,  and  reserve,  betray  a 
consciousness,  on  her  part,  more  gratifying  as  proofs  of 
interest,  from  such  a  woman,  than  the  sweetest  blandish- 
ments of  the  less  sustained  and  magnanimous  of  the  sex. 
It  is  probable  that  the  conscientious  behaviour  of  her  hus- 
band, gave  Laura  no  just  ground  for  breaking  a  contract 
into  which  she  had  voluntarily,  though  perhaps  blindly, 
entered.  Her  children,  too,  had  claims  which  were  par- 
amount and  sacred.  Being,  as  her  lover  describes  her, 
of  a  high  nature,  with  a  clear  sense  of  right,  and  a  rare 
degree  of  self-control,  she  regulated  her  conduct  by  the 
strictest  law  of  propriety.  She  was  too  generous  to  fol- 
low out  her  inclinations,  even  if  she  felt  them  perfectly 
justifiable,  at  the  expense  of  others.  But  while  in  out- 
ward act  she  was  thus  scrupulous,  how  easy  it  is  for  us 
to  imagine  the  inner  life  of  her  heart !  There  she  was 
free.  The  world's  cold  maxims  had  no  authority  within 
her  innocent  bosom.  She  could  brood  with  the  tender- 
est  devotion  in  her  hours  of  solitude,  over  the  gifts  and 
graces  of  her  lover.  She  could  cherish  every  token  of 
his  regard.  In  society,  in  her  walks,  wherever  they  met, 
she  was  at  liberty  for  the  time,  to  realize  in  her  soul,  that 
he  was  her  spirit's  mate,  the  chosen,  the  beloved,  the 
one  in  whose  presence  she  alone  found  content ;  whose 
love  was  the  richest  flower  in  her  life's  chaplet,  and  the 
dearest  hope  that  reconciled  her  to  death.  In  this  and  a 
world  of  similar  emotions,  there  was  no  infidelity.  From 
the  hour  she  knew,  by  experience,  the   meaning  of 


PETRARCH. 


21 


Love,  it  is  impossible,  with  a  conscience  so  delicate 
she  could  have  ever  professed  it  for  her  husband. 
Her  obligations  to  him  were  those  of  duty,  and,  as  far 
as  he  deserved  it,  respect.  Perhaps  he  never  made  a 
claim  upon  her  sentiment ;  perhaps  he  had  not  the  soul 
to  know  its  meaning.  And  here  let  us  notice  a  beautiful 
trait  of  what  many  deem  a  weak  passion,  when  it  is 
awakened  in  superior  natures.  The  very  characteristics 
which  induced  Laura  to  preserve  her  decorum  and  to 
fulfil  her  duties — and  which  her  lover  often  deemed  cold 
and  unkind — were  those  that  won  and  kept  his  heart. 
Such  a  man  would  have  wearied  of  a  weak  woman,  liv- 
ing only  in  herself.  His  nature  was  too  lofty  to  take 
advantage  of  feebleness.  The  same  aspiring  spirit  that 
made  him  a  patriot  and  a  bard,  exalted  his  character  as  a 
lover.  Even  in  his  affections  he  reverenced  the  divine 
principles  of  truth  and  equality.  His  chosen  was  a 
woman  who  understood  herself,  who  had  an  intelligent, 
not  a  slavish  need  of  him  ;  who,  in  the  frank  nobleness 
of  womanhood,  was  his  genial  friend,  whose  pure  and 
strong  heart  spontaneously  responded  unto  his.  Some 
of  his  most  common  allusions  to  her  personal  traits,  and 
points  of  character,  enable  us  readily  to  infer  the  nature 
of  the  charm  that  won  and  kept  the  poet's  heart.  He 
says,  "  non  era  Vandar  cosa  mortale"  (her  movements 
were  not  mortal.)  How  much  this  expresses  to  the  mind 
of  one  aware  of  the  moral  significance  of  a  woman's  air 
and  gait !  L'angelica  sembianza  umile  e  piana ;  (her 
angelic  semblance  meek  and  affable,)  combined  with  II 
lampeggiar  delV  angelico  riso,  (the  flash  of  her  heavenly 
smile,)  give  the  most  vivid  idea  of  that  union  of  ardour  of 
soul  with  lofty  principle,  which  is  the  perfection  of  the 
sex.  Such  phrases  as  Vumilita  superba,  (proud  humil- 
ity), il  bel  tacere,  (beautiful  silence),  dolci  sdegni  (sweet 
disdain),  in  aspetto  pensoso  anima  lieta^  (a  glad  soul 


22 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


beneath  a  thoughtful  aspect,)  V  atto  eke  parla  con  silenzio, 
(the  act  which  speaks  silently,)  in  alto  intelletto  un  pv.ro 
cuore,  (a  pure  heart  blended  with  a  high  mind) — all  con- 
vey the  image  of  a  woman  endowed  with  fine  perception, 
child-like  tenderness,  and  -moral  courage — a  union  of 
qualities  eminently  fitted  to  create  not  merely  love,  but  a 
love  partaking  of  reverence,  such  a  love  as  justifies  itself, 
and  cannot  but  produce,  not  only  mutual  delight,  but 
mutual  goodness.  „ 

If  Laura  had  been  less  of  a  character,  she  could  not 
have  so  long  and  deeply  interested  Petrarch ;  and  if  he 
had  been  equally  self-sustained,  she  would  have  been 
more  indulgent.  The  habits  of  the  age,  the  presence  of 
a  licentious  court,  and  the  personal  fame  of  her  lover, 
threw  more  than  ordinary  impediments  in  the  way  of 
their  intimate  association,  and  rendered  prudence  singu- 
larly necessary.  These  causes  sufficiently  explain  the 
behaviour  of  Laura,  who,  as  one  of  her  biographers  re- 
marks "  always  seems  to  think  that  modesty  and  her 
own  esteem  are  the  most  beautiful  ornaments  of  a 
woman."  It  is  evident  that  she  preserved  composure 
because  his  temperament  was  so  excitable ;  and  through 
all  the  years  of  their  attachment,  it  was  her  legitimate 
part  continually  to  watch  over  the  citadel  of  love,  which 
his  impatience  would  otherwise  have  betrayed.  She 
was  serene,  modest,  and  self-possessed  ;  he,  variable  and 
impassioned.  Hence  they  loved.  Each  supplied  the 
deficient  elements  of  character  to  the  other ;  and  found 
a  secret  and  intimate  joy,  of  which  the  voluptuary  or 
worldly-wise  never  dream,  in  thus  realizing  the  purest 
depths  and  sweetest  capacities  of  their  natures. 

The  ennobling  influence  of  Petrarch's  attachment  is 
variously  manifested.  It  raised  him  above  the  thraldom 
of  sensuality, — 


PETRARCH. 


23 


Da  lei  ti  vien  Pamoroso  pensiero 

Che,  mentre  '1  segui  al  sommo  Ben  f  invia, 

Poco  prezzando  quel  ch'  ogui  uom  desia* 

It  confirmed  his  faith  in  immortality.    After  Laura's 
death,  he  assures  us  that  he  lived  only  to  praise  her. 
To  this  event  he  alludes  with  beautiful  pathos : 
Quando  mostrai  di  chiuder  gli  occhi,  apersi.f 

Then  the  vanity  of  the  world  became  a  thing  of 
solemn  conviction,  and  he  turned  to  God  with  a  single- 
ness of  faith  never  before  experienced.  It  was  his  only 
comfort  to  imagine  her  in  heaven;  and  his  great  hope 
there  to  be  reunited.  He  lived  upon  the  memory  of  her 
graces,  and  was  encouraged  by  her  angel  visits.  He 
speaks  of  her,  even  while  living,  as  associated  with  the 
idea  of  death : 

Chiamando  Morte  e  lei  sola  per  nome.f 

This  is  true  to  the  passion  in  its  exalted  form.  There 
is  no  range  infinite  enough  for  deep  sentiment  but  one 
which  includes  the  perspective  of  a  boundless  future. 
Hence  the  melancholy  of  all  great  emotion.  "  Mio 
bene  "  (my  good)  is  a  simple  but  significant  epithet 
which  the  poet  habitually  applies  to  the  object  of  his 
affections  ;  and 

Pace  tranquilla,  senza  alcum  affano,§ 

is  the  state  of  feeling  that  he  declares  is  induced  merely 
by  her  glance.  He  blesses  the  day,  the  month,  the 
year,  the  season,  the  moment,  the  country,  and  tho  very 
spot  of  their  first  meeting  : 

*  From  thee  comes  the  loving  thought,  following  which,  I  am 
led  to  the  supreme  good,  little  prizing  that  which  all  men  de- 
sire. 

f  When  she  seemed  to  close  her  eyes,  they  opened. 
X  Calling  thee  and  death  by  one  name. 
§  Tranquil  peace,  without  a  single  sigh. 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Benedetto  sia  '1  giorno  e'l  mese  el'anno 
E  la  stagione  e'l  tempo  e  l'ora  e  V  punto 
E  '1  bel  paese  e'l  loco  ov'  io  fui  giunto 
Da  due  begli  occhi  che  legato  m'hanno. 

He  recognizes  this  o'ermastering  sentiment  as  at  once 
the  highest  blessing  and  the  great  discipline  of  his  life  ; 
and  speaks  of  Love  as  his  adversary  as  well  as  his 
delight. 

Sempre  convien  che  combattendo  vivo.* 

He  is  painfully  sensible  of  the  chains  he  wears,  but 
feels  such  captivity  superior  to  freedom : 

II  giogo  e  le  catene  e  i  ceppi 

Eran  piu  dolce  che  'Pandar  sciolto.f 

In  a  word,  all  that  is  permanently  beautiful,  in  the 
harvest  of  his  existence,  he  ascribes  to  his  love : 

Onde  s'  alcum  bel  frutto 
Nasce  di  me,  da  voi  vien  prima  il  seme, 
Io  per  me  son  quasi  un  terreno  asciutto 
Culto  da  voi ;  et  '1  pregio  e'  vostro  in  tutto.J 

Petrarch's  constancy  has  been  a  subject  of  astonish- 
ment to  those  whose  vivacity  of  feeling  is  infinitely 
greater  than  its  depth.  To  such  it  is  not  love  that  the 
heart  requires,  so  much  as  excitement.  They  have  only 
a  French  perception  of  sentiment,  and  affair  du  cceur  is 
the  flippant  term  that  best  describes  their  idea  of  the  part 
which  the  affections  occupy  in  the  scheme  of  happiness. 
A  temporary  indulgence  of  amatory  feeling  resorted  to 
like  equestrian  exercises,  or  a  cup  of  coffee,  as  an  agree- 
able stimulant,  an  antidote  for  ennui,  an  available  method 

*  It  is  necessary  that  I  always  live  fighting, 
f  The  yoke,  the  chains,  and  the  bonds  were  more  sweet  than  to 
go  free. 

%  Hence,  if  any  beautiful  fruit  grows  in  me,  from  thee  came  its 
seed.  Of  myself,  I  am,  as  it  were,  a  barren  soil,  cultivated  by 
thee,  and  all  the  product  is  thine. 


PETRARCH. 


25 


of  producing  a  sensation,  to  stir  the  vapid  atmosphere  of 
routine — such  is  love  to  those  who  marvel  at  constancy. 
Let  them  not  take  the  holy  name  on  their  lips,  at  least, 
not  the  honest  English  word,  but  make  use  of  the  Gallic 
synonyme — a  term  equally  applicable  to  the  experiences 
of  the  libertine  and  the  fop.  To  a  true  human  heart, 
there  is  no  sadder  necessity  in  life  than  that  of  incon- 
stancy ;  for  to  such  a  one  it  can  be  occasioned  but  by  one 
cause — the  discovery  of  unworthiness.  Has  life  a  more 
bitter  cup  than  this  ?  Time  may  dissipate  one  illusion 
after  another,  but  yet  the  good  and  brave  can  look  on 
calmly  and  hopefully,  assured  that 

"  Better  than  the  seen  lies  hid." 

But  let  distrust  of  the  truth,  the  nobleness,  the  loyalty, 
the  affection,  the  high  and  earnest  qualities  of  a  beloved 
being,  once  enter  the  soul,  and  a  withering  blight  falls 
on  its  purest  energies.  Imagination  may  deceive,  cir- 
cumstances overpower  judgment,  false  blandishments 
captivate  the  senses,  but  the  heart  of  the  noble  and 
ardent  goes  not  permanently  forth  except  to  qualities 
kindred  to  itself.  Around  these,  as  embodied  in  an  asso- 
ciated with  a  fair  and  attractive  being,  the  sympathies 
entwine,  and  only  the  canker-worm  of  depravity  can 
sever  their  tendrils.  Repose  is  the  natural  state  of  the 
affections.  Time  deepens  all  true  love.  Its  joys  are 
richer  as,  day  by  day,  mutual  revelations  open  vistas  of 
character  before  unknown.  The  very  good  sought  in 
affection  is  permanence — the  essential  idea  is  to  secure 
one  congenial  object  of  enduring  delight,  to  which  in 
despondency  the  heart  can  revert  for  consolation,  in 
pleasure,  for  sympathy.  It  is  to  have  the  blissful  con- 
sciouness  amid  every  day  scenes  of  barren  toil  or  heart- 
less mirth,  that  we  are  independent  of  the  crowd,  and 
"  have  bread  to  eat  which  they  know  not  of."  En- 
2* 


26  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

forced  constancy  is  indeed  no  virtue.  When  there  is  not 
a  lasting  basis  for  love,  for  truth's  sake,  let  it  die  out. 
No  hot-bed  means  can  nourish  the  richest  flower  of 
earth  ;  better  that  it  should  perish  than  have  no  original 
vitality.  Yet,  the  lover  is  untrue  to  his  vocation,  if, 
when  his  best  feelings  are  elicited  and  reciprocated, 
when  his  yearning  heart  has  found  its  twin,  his  weary 
head  the  bosom  that  is  the  pillow  of  its  happy  repose, 
his  overflowing  tenderness  the  being  who  drinks  in  new 
life  and  profound  content  from  his  nurture — if,  when 
these  high  and  exacting  conditions  are  satisfied,  he  do 
not  will  with  all  the  energy  of  his  moral  nature,  to  avoid 
every  temptation,  even  to  casual  infidelity.  To  the  high 
and  warm  soul,  there  is  no  bond  on  earth  like  that  of 
sentiment.  And  why  ?  It  is  the  free  choice,  the  un- 
shackled desire,  the  spontaneous  self-dedication.  The 
absence  of  outward  chains  only  makes  the  inward 
consecration  more  absolute,  even  as  the  dictate  of  honour 
is  more  imperative  with  a  high-toned  man  than  all  the 
authority  of  law  or  custom.  Indeed  we  suggest  one 
undeniable  fact  to  the  scoffers  at  human  nature — to  those 
who  believe  not  in  its  infinite  capacities  and  divine  in- 
stincts, and  account  for  all  its  phenomena  on  materia] 
principles — and  that  is,  thai  sentiment  controls  passion. 
When  a  human  being  of  the  strongest  animal  propensi- 
ties, loves,  (that  is,  becomes  intensely  conscious  of  thor- 
ough sympathy  with,  and  peculiar  devotion  for  another,) 
the  body  itself  acquires  a  sacredness.  It  is  regarded  as 
the  shrine  of  a  hallowing  affection,  which  the  touch  of 
an  alien  would  desecrate.  It  is  sentiment  only  that 
raises  human  appetites  above  those  of  the  brute  ;  and  to 
the  unperverted,  the  only  real  pleasures  of  sense  are 
those  in  which  the  soul  intimately  blends.  Yet,  another 
ratioral  inducement  to  constancy  obtains.  Hemmed  in 
by  external  obligations  from  infancy,  with  social  laws 


PETRARCH. 


27 


forever  checking  our  personal  action,  and  forcing  the 
stream  of  natural  feeling  into  formal  channels,  it  is  a 
glory  and  a  joy,  peculiar  and  almost  supernal,  to  have 
one  altar  reared  by  our  own  hands,  one  worship  sacred 
to  us,  alone,  one  secret  fountain  which  our  instinct  has 
discovered  in  the  wilderness  of  life,  where  we  drink 
those  sweet  waters  that  alone  can  allay  the  thirst  of  the 
heart.  Whoever  sees  any  intrinsic  difficulty  in  constant 
affection,  or  abandons  any  true  sentiment,  except  from 
the  unfitness  of  its  object,  is  not  only  ignorant  of  love, 
but  independent  of  it.  The  heart  that  has  really  felt 
privation  alone  will  appreciate  abundance  ;  and  can  no 
more  fail  to  maintain  and  cherish  the  greatest  blessing 
of  existence,  when  once  it  is  absolutely  realized,  than 
the  stars  can  renounce  their  orbits. 

Petrarch  was  true  to  Love,  and  developed  its  elements 
more  richly  through  solitude.  It  is  evident  that  his 
various  journeyings  and  political  embassies,  as  well  as 
his  literary  and  social  activity,  were  occasioned  by  a 
sense  of  duty,  and  the  healthful  claims  of  his  mental 
powers  for  scope  and  enterprise,  rather  than  by  ambition 
or  any  personal  views.  The  reason  devoted  ness  and 
consistency  are  so  rare  in  the  world,  is  that  people  usually 
choose  to  dissipate  instead  of  concentrating  their  feelings. 
Amusement  is  the  very  food  of  being  to  the  majority  of 
those  who  are  not  compelled  by  necessity  to  daily  toil. 
To  triumph  in  the  circles  of  fashion,  skim  good-naturedly 
along  the  surface  of  existence,  think  as  little  as  possible, 
and  avoid  all  self-communion  and  earnestness  of  aim,  is 
the  philosophy  of  life  to  the  multitude.  Some  adopt 
this  course  because  they  actually  do  not  feel  the  need  of 
any  thing  deeper  or  more  sincere  ;  their  natures  are 
essentially  shallow  and  capricious,  and  their  joys  and 
sufferings  alike  superficial.  But  others,  and  alas,  how 
many  capable  of  better  things  !  are,  as  it  were,  driven 


28 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE  POETS. 


from  their  true  position  by  circumstances.  They  feel 
themselves  above  the  ephemeral  pleasures  of  society, 
and  in  point  of  fact  realize  no  satisfaction  in  the  indul- 
gence of  minor  tastes  and  light  emotions.  They  have 
profound  sympathies  and  magnanimous  hearts.  Some- 
times the  poet's  word  or  the  orator's  appeal,  a  breeze  of 
spring,  an  outbreak  of  genuine  sentiment  in  another — 
some  gleam  or  echo  from  a  true  soul — touches  the  latent 
chords  in  their  bosoms.  They  become,  for  a  moment, 
conscious  of  the  real  ends  of  their  being.  Artificial  life 
seems  mean  and  shadowy.  They  have  glimpses  of 
reality,  and  perhaps  retire  to  their  chambers  to  weep  and 
pray. 

At  such  times  comes  the  vision  of  Love.  Then  it  is 
seen  how  blest  and  happy  is  therheart  that  is  absorbed  in 
a  worthy  object,  and  lives  wholly  in  its  affections.  It  is 
by  communion  with  itself  that  love  grows  strong.  The 
process  of  adaptation  which  is  so  familiar  to  women,  grad- 
ually robs  feeling  of  all  depth  and  intensity.  If  very  ele- 
vated in  tone  of  mind,  or  very  energetic  in  purpose,  their 
freshness  of  heart  may  indeed  survive  long  habits  of  this 
kind.  We  sometimes  encounter,  even  in  the  circles  of 
gay  life,  a  woman  who  has  been  idolized  for  years  as 
beautiful  or  accomplished,  who  has  long  borne  the  name 
both  of  wife  and  mother;  but  in  her  whole  person,  in 
the  depths  of  her  eyes,  in  the  more  earnest  tones  of  her 
voice,  we  recognize  a  virgin  soul.  Such  beings  have 
been  kept  from  perversion  by  strength  of  will,  clear  per- 
ception of  right  or  rare  purity  of  mind  ;  but  one  good  has 
been  denied  them,  one  destiny  they  have  as  yet  failed  to 
achieve — their  hearts  are  undeveloped.  The  legitimate 
object  of  their  affections  has  not  appeared.  The  richest 
phase  of  their  existence  has  not  dawned.  They  have 
known  marriage,  admiration,  conquest — but  not  love. 
Thus  we  feel  it  to  have  been  with  Laura  when  she  met 


PETRARCH. 


29 


the  poet.  But  few  thus  preserve  their  sympathies.  It  is 
characteristic  of  those  who  truly  love,  to  seek  in  medita- 
tion nurture  for  their  sentiment.  Only  by  reflection  can 
we  realize  any  great  emotion  ;  and  it  is  by  thought  that 
feeling  shapes  itself  into  permanent  and  well  denned 
vigour.  The  devotion  of  a  man  of  meditative  pursuits, 
other  things  being  equal,  is  therefore  infinitely  more  real 
and  pervading  than  his  whose  heart  is  divided  by  schemes 
of  fame  or  gain,  and  rendered  frivolous  by  common-place 
associations.  Accordingly  Petrarch  nourished  his  pas- 
sion by  musing.  As  to  all  true  lovers,  other  interests 
were  wholly  secondary  and  external  to  him,  compared 
with  the  prevailing  feeling  of  his  heart.  To  enjoy,  ay, 
and  to  suffer  this — it  was  requisite  to  be  alone,  and  the 
name  of  Vancluse  is  forever  associated  with  vigils  of  the 
love,  which  found  such  enduring  and  graceful  expression 
in  his  poetry. 


GOLDSMITH. 


It  is  sometimes  both  pleasing  and  profitable  to  recur 
to  those  characters  in  literary  history  who  are  emphati- 
cally favourites,  and  to  glance  at  the  causes  of  their  popu- 
larity. Such  speculations  frequently  afford  more  impor- 
tant results  than  the  mere  gratification  of  curiosity.  They 
often  lead  to  a  clearer  perception  of  the  true  tests  of  genius, 
and  indicate  the  principle  and  methods  by  which  the  com- 
mon mind  may  be  most  successfully  addressed.  The 
advantage  of  such  retrospective  inquiries  is  still  greater 
at  a  period  like  the  present,  when  there  is  such  an  ob- 
vious tendency  to  innovate  upon  some  of  the  best-estab- 
lished theories  of  taste ;  when  the  passion  for  novelty 
seeks  for  such  unlicensed  indulgence,  and  invention  seems 
to  exhaust  itself  rather  upon  forms  than  ideas.  In  litera- 
ture, especially,  we  appear  to  be  daily  losing  one  of  the 
most  valuable  elements — simplicity.  The  prevalent  taste 
is  no  longer  gratified  with  the  natural.  There  is  a 
growing  appetite  for  what  is  startling  and  peculiar,  seldom 
accompanied  by  any  discriminating  demand  for  the  true 
and  original ;  and  yet,  experience  has  fully  proved  that 
these  last  are  the  only  permanent  elements  of  literature ; 
and  no  healthly  mind,  cognizant  of  its  own  history,  is  un- 
aware that  the  only  intellectual  aliment  which  never  palls 
upon  the  taste,  is  that  which  is  least  indebted  to  extrane- 
ous accompaniments  for  its  relish. 

It  is  ever  refreshing  to  revert  to  first  principles.  The 


GOLDSMITH. 


31 


study  of  the  old  masters  may  sometimes  make  the  mod- 
ern artist  despair  of  his  own  efforts  ;  but  if  he  have  the 
genius  to  discover,  and  follow  out  the  great  principle  up- 
on which  they  wrought,  he  will  not  have  contemplated 
their  works  in  vain.  He  will  have  learned  that  devotion 
to  Nature  is  the  grand  secret  of  progress  in  Art,  and  that 
the  success  of  her  votaries  depends  upon  the  singleness, 
constancy,  and  intelligence  of  their  worship.  If  there  is 
not  enthusiasm  enough  to  kindle  this  flame  in  its  purity, 
nor  energy  sufficient  to  fulfil  the  sacrifice  required  at  that 
high  altar,  let  not  the  young  aspirant  enter  the  priesthood 
of  art.  When  the  immortal  painter  of  the  Transfigura- 
tion was  asked  to  embody  his  ideal  of  perfect  female  love- 
liness, he  replied — there  would  still  be  an  infinite  dis- 
tance between  his  work  and  the  existent  original.  In 
this  profound  and  vivid  perception  of  the  beautiful  in 
nature,  we  perceive  the  origin  of  those  lovely  creations, 
which,  for  more  than  three  hundred  years,  have  delighted 
mankind.  And  it  is  equally  true  of  the  pen  as  the  pen- 
cil, that  what  is  drawn  from  life  and  the  heart,  alone  bears 
the  impress  of  immortality.  Yet  the  practical  faith  of  our 
day  is  diametrically  opposed  to  this  truth.  The  writers 
,  of  our  times  are  constantly  making  use  of  artificial  engi- 
nery. They  have,  for  the  most  part,  abandoned  the  in- 
tegrity of  purpose  and  earnest  directness  of  earlier  epochs. 
There  is  less  faith,  as  we  before  said,  in  the  natural;  and 
when  we  turn  from  the  midst  of  the  forced  and  hot-bed 
products  of  the  modern  school,  and  ramble  in  the  garden 
of  old  English  literature,  a  cool  and  calm  refreshment 
invigorates  the  spirit,  like  the  first  breath  of  mountain  air 
to  the  weary  wayfarer. 

There  are  few  writers  of  the  period  more  generally 
beloved  than  Dr.  Goldsmith.  Of  his  contemporaries, 
Burke  excelled  him  in  splendor  of  diction,  and  Johnson 
in  depth  of  thought.    The  former  continues  to  enjoy  a 


32  THOUGHTS   ON   THE  POE*S. 

larger  share  of  admiration,  and  the  latter  of  respect,  bu* 
the  labours  of  their  less  pretending  companion  have  se- 
cured him  a  far  richer  heritage  of  love.  Of  all  posthu 
mous  tributes  to  genius,  this  seems  the  most  truly  desira- 
ble. It  recognizes  the  man  as  well  as  the  author.  It  is 
called  forth  by  more  interesting  characteristics  than  tal- 
ent. It  bespeaks  a  greater  than  ordinary  association  of 
the  individual  with  his  works,  and  looking  beyond  the 
mere  embodiment  of  his  intellect,  it  gives  assurance  of  an 
attractiveness  in  his  character  which  has  made  itself  felt 
even  through  the  artificial  medium  of  writing.  The  au- 
thors are  comparatively  few,  who  have  awakened  this 
feeling  of  personal  interest  and  affection.  It  is  common, 
indeed,  for  any  writer  of  genius  to  inspire  emotions  of 
gratitude  in  the  breasts  of  those  susceptible  to  the  charm, 
but  the  instances  are  rare  in  which  this  sentiment  is  vivi- 
fied and  elevated  into  positive  affection.  And  few,  I  ap- 
prehend, among  the  wits  and  poets  of  old  England,  have 
more  widely  awakened  it  than  Oliver  Goldsmith.  I  have 
said  this  kind  of  literary  fame  was  eminently  desirable. 
There  is,  indeed,  something  inexpressibly  touching  in  the 
thought  of  one  of  the  gifted  of  our  race,  attaching  to  him- 
self countless  hearts  by  the  force  of  a  charm  woven  in 
by-gone  years,  when  environed  by  neglect  and  discour- 
agement. Though  a  late,  it  is  a  beautiful  recompense, 
transcending  mere  critical  approbation,  or  even  the  reve- 
rence men  offer  to  the  monuments  of  mind.  We  can 
conceive  of  no  motive  to  effort  which  can  be  presented  to 
a  man  of  true  feeling,  like  the  hope  of  winning  the  love 
of  his  kind  by  the  faithful  exhibition  of  himself.  It  is  a 
nobler  purpose  than  that  entertained  by  heartless  ambi- 
tion. The  appeal  is  not  merely  to  the  judgment  and  im- 
agination, it  is  to  the  universal  heart  of  mankind.  Such 
fame  is  emphatically  rich.  It  gains  its  possessor  warm 
friends  instead  of  mere  admirers.    To  establish  such  an 


GOLDSMITH. 


33 


inheritance  in  the  breast  of  humanity,  were  indeed  wor- 
thy of  sacrifice  and  toil.  It  is  an  offering  not  only  to  in- 
tellectual but  to  moral  graces,  and  its  possession  argues 
for  the  sons  of  fame  holier  qualities  than  genius  itself. 
It  eloquently  indicates  that  its  subject  is  not  only  capable 
of  interesting  the  general  mind  by  the  power  of  his  crea- 
tions, but  of  captivating  the  feelings  by  the  earnest  beauty 
of  his  nature.  Of  all  oblations,  therefore,  we  deem  it  the 
most  valuable.  It  is  this  sentiment  with  which  the  lov- 
ers of  painting  regard  the  truest  interpreters  of  the  art. 
They  wonder  at  Michael  Angelo  but  love  Raphael,  and 
gaze  upon  the  pensively  beautiful  delineation  he  has  left 
us  of  himself,  with  the  regretful  tenderness  with  which 
we  look  upon  the  portrait  of  a  departed  friend.  The  dev- 
otees of  music,  too,  dwell  with  glad  astonishment  upon 
the  celebrated  operas  of  Rosini  and  some  of  the  German 
composers,  but  the  memory  of  Bellini  is  absolutely  loved. 
It  is  well  remarked  by  one  of  Goldsmith's  biographers, 
that  the  very  fact  of  his  being  spoken  of  always  with  the 
epithet  "  poor  "  attached  to  his  name,  is  sufficient  evi- 
dence of  the  kind  of  fame  he  enjoys.  Whence,  then,  the 
peculiar  attraction  of  his  writings,  and  wherein  consists 
the  spell  which  has  so  long  rendered  his  works  the  fa- 
vourites of  so  many  and  such  a  variety  of  readers  ? 

The  primary  and  all-pervading  charm  of  Goldsmith  is 
his  truth.  It  is  interesting  to  trace  this  delightful  char- 
acteristic, as  it  exhibits  itself  not  less  in  his  life  than  in 
his  writings.  We  see  it  displayed  in  the  remarkable 
frankness  which  distinguished  his  intercourse  with 
others,  and  in  that  winning  simplicity  which  so  fre- 
quently excited  the  contemptuous  laugh  of  the  worldly- 
wise,  but  failed  not  to  draw  towards  him  the  more  valua- 
ble sympathies  of  less  perverted  natures.  All  who  have 
sketched  his  biography  unite  in  declaring,  that  he  could 
not  dissemble  ;  and  we  have  a  good  illustration  of  his 


34 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


want  of  tact  in  concealing  a  defect,  in  the  story  which  is 
related  of  him  at  the  time  of  his  unsuccessful  attempt  at 
medical  practice  in  Edinburgh — when,  his  only  velvet 
coat  being  deformed  by  a  huge  patch  on  the  right  breast, 
he  was  accustomed,  while  in  the  drawing-room,  to  coyer 
it  in  the  most  awkward  manner  with  his  hat.  It  was  his 
natural  truthfulness  which  led  him  to  so  candid  and 
habitual  a  confession  of  his  faults.  Johnson  ridiculed 
him  for  so  freely  describing  the  state  of  his  feelings  dur- 
ing the  representation  of  his  first  play  ;  and,  throughout 
his  life,  the  perfect  honesty  of  his  spirit  made  him  the 
subject  of  innumerable  practical  jokes.  Credulity  is 
perhaps  a  weakness  almost  inseparable  from  eminently 
truthful  characters.  Yet,  if  such  is  the  case,  it  does  not 
in  the  least  diminish  our  faith  in  the  superiority  and 
value  of  such  characters.  Waiving  all  moral  considera- 
tions, we  believe  it  can  be  demonstrated  that  truth  is  one 
of  the  most  essential  elements  of  real  greatness,  and 
surest  means  of  eminent  success.  Management,  chica- 
nery and  cunning,  may  advance  men  in  the  career  of  the 
world  ;  it  may  forward  the  views  of  the  politician,  and 
clear  the  way  of  the  diplomatist.  But  when  humanity 
is  to  be  addressed  in  the  universal  language  of  genius; 
when,  through  the  medium  of  literature  or  art,  man 
essays  to  reach  the  heart  of  his  kind,  the  more  sincere 
the  appeal,  the  surer  its  effect  ;  the  more  direct  the  call, 
the  deeper  the  response.  In  a  word,  the  more  largely 
truth  enters  into  a  work,  the  more  certain  the  fame  of  its 
author.  But  a  few  months  since,  I  saw  the  Parisian 
populace  crowding  around  the  church  where  the  remains 
of  Talleyrand  lay  in  state,  but  the  fever  of  curiosity  alone 
gleamed  from  their  eyes,  undimmed  by  tears.  When 
Goldsmith  died,  Reynolds,  then  in  the  full  tide  of  suc- 
cess, threw  his  pencil  aside  in  sorrow,  and  Burke  turned 
from  the  fast-brightening  vision  of  renown,  to  weep. 


GOLDSMITH. 


35 


Truth  is  an  endearing  quality.  None  are  so  beloved 
as  the  ingenuous.  We  feel  in  approaching  them  that  the 
look  of  welcome  is  unaffected — that  the  friendly  grasp  is 
from  the  heart,  and  we  regret  their  departure  as  an  actual 
loss.  And  not  less  wrinningly  shines  this  high  and  sacred 
principle  through  the  labours  of  genius.  It  immortalizes 
history — it  is  the  true  origin  of  eloquence,  and  consti- 
tutes the  living  charm  of  poetry.  When  Goldsmith 
penned  the  lines — 

"  To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart, 
One  native  charm  than  all  the  gloss  of  art," 

he  furnished  the  key  to  his  peculiar  genius,  and  recorded 
the  secret  which  has  embalmed  his  memory.  It  was 
the  clearness  of  his  own  soul  which  reflected  so  truly  the 
imagery  of  life.  He  did  but  transcribe  the  unadorned 
convictions  that  glowed«in  his  mind,  and  faithfully  traced 
the  pictures  which  nature  threw  upon  the  mirror  of  his 
fancy.  Hence  the  unrivalled  excellence  of  his  descrip- 
tions. Rural  life  has  never  found  a  sweeter  eulogist. 
To  countless  memories  have  his  village  landscapes  risen 
pleasantly,  when  the  "  murmur"  rose  at  eventide. 
Where  do  we  not  meet  with  a  kind-hearted  philosopher 
delighting  in  some  speculative  hobby,  equally  dear  as 
the  good  Vicar's  theory  of  Monogamy  ?  The  vigils  of 
many  an  ardent  student  have  been  beguiled  by  his  por- 
traiture of  a  country  clergyman — brightening  the  dim 
vista  of  futurity  as  his  own  ideal  of  destiny ;  and  who 
has  not,  at  times,  caught  the  very  solace  of  retirement 
from  his  sweet  apostrophe  ? 

The  genius  of  Goldsmith  was  chiefly  fertilized  by  ob- 
servation. He  was  not  one  of  those  who  regard  books 
as  the  only,  or  even  the  principal  sources  of  knowledge. 
He  recognised  and  delighted  to  study  the  unwritten  lore 
so  richly  spread  over  the  volume  of  nature,  and  shad- 


36 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


owed  forth  so  variously  from  the  scenes  of  every-day  life 
and  the  teachings  of  individual  experience.  There  is  a 
class  of  minds,  second  to  none  in  native  acuteness  and 
reflective  power,  so  constituted  as  to  flourish  almost  ex- 
clusively by  observation.  Too  impatient  of  restraint  to 
endure  the  long  vigils  of  the  scholar,  they  are  yet  keenly 
alive  to  every  idea  and  truth  which  is  evolved  from  life. 
Without  a  tithe  of  that  spirit  of  application  that  binds  the 
German  student  for  years  to  his  familiar  tomes,  they 
suffer  not  a  single  impression  which  events  or  character 
leave  upon  their  memories  to  pass  unappreciated.  Un- 
learned, in  a  great  measure,  in  the  history  of  the  past, 
the  present  is  not  allowed  to  pass  without  eliciting  their 
intelligent  comment.  Unskilled  in  the  technicalities  of 
learning,  they  contrive  to  appropriate,  with  surprising 
facility,  the  wisdom  born  of  the  passing  moment.  No 
striking  trait  of  character — no  remarkable  effect  in  na- 
ture— none  of  the  phenomena  of  social  existence,  escape 
them.  Like  Hogarth,  they  are  constantly  enriching 
themselves  with  sketches  from  life  ;  and,  as  he  drew 
street-wonders  upon  his  thumb-nail,  they  note  and 
remember,  and  afterwards  elaborate  and  digest  whatever 
of  interest  experience  affords.  Goldsmith  was  a  true 
specimen  of  this  class.  He  vindicated,  indeed,  his  claim 
to  the  title  of  scholar,  by  research  and  study ;  but  the 
field  most  congenial  to  his  taste,  was  the  broad  universe 
of  nature  and  man.  It  was  his  love  of  observation 
which  gave  zest  to  the  roving  life  he  began  so  early  to 
indulge.  His  boyhood  was  passed  in  a  constant  succes- 
sion of  friendly  visits.  He  was  ever  migrating  from  the 
house  of  one  kinsman  or  friend  to  that  of  another;  and 
on  these  occasions,  as  well  as  when  at  home,  he  was 
silently  but  faithfully  observing.  The  result  is  easily 
traced  in  his  writings.  Few  authors,  indeed,  are  so 
highly  indebted  to  personal  observation  for  their  mate- 


GOLDSMITH. 


3? 


rials.  It  is  well  known  that  the  original  of  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  was  his  own  father.  Therein  has  he  em 
bodied  in  a  charming  manner  his  early  recollections  ol 
his  parent,  and  the  picture  is  rendered  still  more  com 
plete  in  his  papers  on  the  "  Man  in  Black."  The  in 
imitable  description,  too,  of  the  "  Village  Schoolmaster 
is  drawn  from  the  poet's  early  teacher ;  and  the  veteran, 
who  "  shouldered  his  crutch  and  told  how  fields  were 
won,"  had  often  shared  the  hospitality  of  his  father  s 
roof.  The  leading  incident  in  "  She  Stoops  to  Con- 
quer," was  his  own  adventure;  and  there  is  little  ques- 
tion, that,  in  the  quaint  tastes  of  Mr.  Burchell,  he  aimed 
to  exhibit  many  of  his  own  peculiar  traits.  But  it  is  not 
alone  in  the  leading  characters  of  his  novel,  plays  and 
poems,  that  we  discover  Goldsmith's  observing  power- 
It  is  equally  discernible  throughout  his  essays  and  desul- 
tory papers.  Most  of  his  illustrations  are  borrowed 
from  personal  experience,  and  his  opinions  are  generally 
founded  upon  experiment.  His  talent  for  1  resh  and  vivid 
delineation,  is  ever  most  prominently  displayed  when  he 
is  describing  what  he  actually  witnessed,  or  drawing 
from  the  rich  fund  of  his  early  impressions  or  subsequent 
adventures.  No  appeal  to  humour,  curiosity,  or  imagi 
nation,  was  unheeded ;  and  it  is  the  blended  pictures  he 
contrived  to  combine  from  these  cherished  associations, 
that  impart  so  lively  an  interest  to  his  pages.  One  mo- 
ment we  find  him  noting,  with  philosophic  sympathy,  the 
pastimes  of  a  foreign  peasantry,  and,  another,  studying 
the  operations  of  a  spider  at  his  garret  window, — now 
busy  in  nomenclating  the  peculiarities  of  the  Dutch,  and 
anon  alluding  to  the  exhibition  of  Cherokee  Indians. 
The  natural  effect  of  this  thirst  for  experimental  knowl- 
edge, was  to  beget  a  love  for  foreign  travel.  Accord 
ingly,  we  find  that  Goldsmith,  after  exhausting  the  nar- 
row circle  which  his  limited  means  could  compass  ai 
3 


38 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS 


home,  projected  a  continental  tour,  and  long  cherished 
the  hope  of  visiting  the  East.  Indeed,  we  could  scarcely 
have  a  stronger  proof  of  his  enthusiasm,  than  the  long 
journey  he  undertook  and  actually  accomplished  on  foot 
The  remembrance  of  his  romantic  wanderings  over  Hol- 
land, France,  Germany,  and  Italy,  imparts  a  singular 
interest  to  his  writings.  It  was  indeed  worthy  of  a  true 
poet  that,  enamoured  of  nature  and  delighting  in  the  ob- 
servation of  his  species,  he  should  thus  manfully  go 
forth,  with  no  companion  but  his  flute,  and  wander  over 
these  fair  lands  hallowed  by  past  associations  and  exist- 
ent beauty.  A  rich  and  happy  era,  despite  its  moments 
of  discomfort,  to  such  a  spirit,  was  that  year  of  solitary 
pilgrimage.  Happy  and  proud  must  have  been  the  ima- 
ginative pedestrian,  as  he  reposed  his  weary  frame  in  the 
peasant's  cottage  "  beside  the  murmuring  Loire ;"  and 
happier  still  when  he  stood"  amid  the  green  valleys  of 
Switzerland,  and  looked  around  upon  her  snow-capt 
hills,  hailed  the  old  towers  of  Verona,  or  entered  the 
gate  of  Florence — the  long-anticipated  goals  to  which 
his  weary  footsteps  had  so  patiently  tended.  If  any 
thing  could  enhance  the  pleasure  of  musing  amid  these 
scenes  of  poetic  interest,  it  must  have  been  the  conscious- 
ness of  having  reached  them  by  so  gradual  and  self- 
denying  a  progress.  There  is,  in  truth,  no  more  charac- 
teristic portion  of  Goldsmith's  biography,  than  that  which 
records  this  remarkable  tour ;  and  there  are  few  more 
striking  instances  of  the  available  worth  of  talent.  Un- 
like the  bards  of  old,  he  won  not  his  way  to  shelter  and 
hospitality  by  appealing  to  national  feeling ;  for  the  lands 
through  which  he  roamed  were  not  his  own,  and  the  lay 
of  the  last  mins'rel  had  long  since  died  away  in  oblivion. 
But  he  gained  the  ready  kindness  of  the  peasantry  by 
playing  the  flute,  as  they  danced  in  the  intervals  of  toil ; 
and  won  the  favour  of  the  learned  by  successful  disputa- 


GOLDSMITH. 


39 


tion  at  the  convents  and  universities — a  method  of  re- 
warding talent  which  was  extensively  practised  in 
Europe  at  that  period.  Thus,  solely  befriended  by  his 
wits,  the  roving  poet  rambled  over  the  continent,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  vicissitudes  incident  to  so  precarious 
a  mode  of  seeing  the  world,  to  a  mind  like  his,  there  was 
ample  compensation  in  the  superior  opportunities  for  ob- 
servation thus  afforded.  He  mingled  frankly  with  the 
people,  and  saw  things  as  they  were.  The  scenery 
which  environed  him  flitted  not  before  his  senses,  like 
the  shifting  scenes  of  a  panorama,  but  became  familiar  to 
his  eye  under  the  changing  aspects  of  time  and  season. 
Manners  and  customs  he  quietly  studied,  with  the  ad- 
vantage of  sufficient  opportunity  to  institute  just  compar- 
isons and  draw  fair  inferences.  In  short,  Goldsmith  was 
no  tyro  in  the  philosophy  of  travel ;  and,  although  the 
course  he  pursued  was  dictated  by  necessity,  its  superior 
results  are  abundantly  evidenced  throughout  his  works. 
We  have,  indeed,  no  formal  narrative  of  his  journeyings  ; 
but  what  is  better,  there  is  scarcely  a  page  thrown  off,  to 
supply  the  pressing  wants  of  the  moment,  which  is  not 
enriched  by  some  pleasing  reminiscence  or  sensible 
thought,  garnered  from  the  recollection  and  scenes  of 
that  long  pilgrimage.  Nor  did  he  fail  to  embody  the 
prominent  impressions  of  so  interesting  an  epoch  of  his 
chequered  life,  in  a  more  enduring  and  beautiful  form. 
The  poem  of  "  The  Traveller,"  originally  sketched  in 
Switzerland,  was  subsequently  revised  and  extended.  It 
was  the  foundation  of  Goldsmith's  poetical  fame.  The 
subject  evinces  the  taste  of  the  author.  The  unpretend- 
ing vein  of  enthusiasm  which  runs  through  it,  is  only 
equalled  by  the  force  and  simplicity  of  the  style.  The 
rapid  sketches  of  the  several  countries  it  presents,  are 
vigorous  and  pleasing ;  and  the  reflections  interspersed, 
abound  with  that  truly  humane  spirit,  and  that  deep  sym- 


40 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


rathy  with  the  good,  the  beautiful,  and  the  true,  which 
distinguishes  the  poet.  This  production  may  be  regard- 
ed as  the  author's  first  deliberate  attempt  in  the  career  of 
genius.  It  went  through  nine  editions  during  his  life, 
and  its  success  contributed,  in  a  great  measure,  to  en- 
courage and  sustain  him  in  future  and  less  genial  efforts. 

The  faults  Avhich  are  said  to  have  deformed  the  char- 
acter of  Goldsmith,  belong  essentially  to  the  class  of 
foibles  rather  than  absolute  and  positive  errors.  Kecent 
biographers  agree  in  the  opinion,  that  his  alleged  devo- 
tion to  play  has  either  been  grossly  exaggerated,  or  was 
but  a  temporary  mania ;  and  we  should  infer  from  his 
own  allusion  to  the  subject,  that  he  had,  with  the  flexi- 
bility of  disposition  that  belonged  to  him,  yielded  only  so 
far  to  its  seductions  as  to  learn  from  experience  the 
supreme  folly  of  the  practice.  It  is  at  all  events  certain, 
that  his  means  were  too  restricted,  and  his  time,  while  in 
London,  too  much  occupied,  to  allow  of  his  enacting  the 
part  of  a  regular  and  professed  gamester  ;  and  during 
the  latter  and  most  busy  years  of  his  life,  we  have  the 
testimony  of  the  members  of  the  celebrated  club  to 
which  he  was  attached,  to  the  temperance  and  industry 
of  his  habits.  Another,  and  in  the  eyes  of  the  world, 
perhaps,  greater  weakness  recorded  of  him,  was  a  mawk- 
ish vanity,  sometimes  accompanied  by  jealousy  of  more 
successful  competitors  for  the  honours  of  literature.  Some 
anecdotes,  illustrative  of  this  unamiable  trait,  are  pre- 
served, which  would-  amuse  us,  were  they  associated 
with  less  noble  endowments  or  a  more  uninteresting 
character.  As  it  is,  however,  not  a  few  of  them  chal- 
lenge credulity,  from  their  utter  want  of  harmony  with 
certain  dispositions  which  he  is  universally  allowed  to 
have  possessed.  But  it  is  one  of  the  greatest  and  most 
common  errors  in  judging  of  character,  to  take  an  isola- 
ted and  partial,  instead  of  a  broad  and  comprehensive 


GOLDSMITH. 


41 


view  of  the  various  qualities  which  go  to  form  the  man, 
and  the  peculiar  circumstances  that  have  influenced  their 
development.  Upon  a  candid  retrospect  of  Goldsmith's 
life,  it  appears  to  us  that  the  display  of  vanity,  which  in 
the  view  of  many  are  so  demeaning,  may  be  easily  and 
satisfactorily  explained.  Few  men  possess  talent  of  any 
kind  unconsciously.  It  seems  designed  by  the  Creator, 
that  the  very  sense  of  capacity  should  urge  genius  to  fulfil 
its  mission,  and  support  its  early  and  lonely  efforts  by  the 
earnest  conviction  of  ultimate  success.  To  beings  thus 
endowed,  the  neglect  and  contumely  of  the  world — the 
want  of  sympathy — the  feeling  of  misappreciation,  is 
often  a  keen  sorrow  felt  precisely  in  proportion  to  the 
susceptibility  of  the  individual,  and  expressed  according 
as  he  is  ingenuous  and  frank. 

In  the  case  of  Goldsmith,  his  long  and  solitary  strug- 
gle with  poverty — his  years  of  obscure  toil — his  ill-suc- 
cess in  every  scheme  for  support,  coupled  as  they  were 
with  an  intuitive  and  deep  consciousness  of  mental 
power  and  poetic  gifts,  were  calculated  to  render  him 
painfully  alive  to  the  superior  consideration  bestowed 
upon  less  deserving  but  more  presumptuous  men,  and 
the  unmerited  and  unjust  disregard  to  his  own  claims. 
Weak  it  undoubtedly  was,  for  him  to  give  vent  so  child- 
ishly to  such  feelings,  but  this  sprung  from  the  spontane- 
ous honesty  of  his  nature.  He  felt  as  thousands  have 
felt  under  similar  circumstances,  but,  unlike  the  most  of 
men,  "  he  knew  not  the  art  of  concealment."  Indeed, 
this  free-spoken,  and  candid  disposition  was  inimical  to 
his  success  in  more  than  one  respect.  He  was  ever  a 
careless  talker,  unable  to  play  the  great  man,  and  in- 
stinctively preferring  the  spontaneous  to  the  formal,  and 
"  thinking  aloud"  to  studied  and  circumspect  speech. 
The  "  exquisite  sensibility  to  contempt,"  too,  which  he 
confesses  belonged  to  him,  frequently  induced  an  appear- 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE  POETS. 


ance  of  conceit,  when  no  undue  share  existed.  The 
truth  is,  the  legitimate  pride  of  talent,  for  want  of  free 
and  natural  scope,  often  exhibited  itself  in  Goldsmith 
greatly  to  his  disadvantage.  The  fault  wras  rather  in  his 
destiny  than  himself.  He  ran  away  from  college  with 
the  design  of  embarking  for  America,  because  he  was 
reproved  by  an  unfeeling  tutor  before  a  convivial  party 
of  his  friends;  and  descended  to  a  personal  rencontre 
with  a  printer,  who  impudently  delivered  Dodsley's  refu- 
sal that  he  should  undertake  an  improved  edition  of  Pope. 
He  concealed  his  name  when  necessity  obliged  him  to 
apply  for  the  office  of  Usher;  and  received  visits  and 
letters  at  a  fashionable  coffee-house,  rather  than  expose 
the  poorness  of  his  lodgings.  He  joined  the  crowd  to 
hear  his  own  ballads  sung  when  a  student ;  and  openly 
expressed  his  wonder  at  the  stupidity  of  people,  in  pre- 
ferring the  tricks  of  a  mountebank  to  the  society  of  a  man 
like  himself.  While  we  smile  at,  we  cannot  wholly, 
deride  such  foibles,  and  are  constrained  to  say  of  Gold- 
smith as  he  said  of  the  Village  Pastor* — 

"  And  e'en  his  failings  leaned  to  rirtue's  side." 

It  is  not  easy  to  say,  whether  the  improvidence  of  our 
poet  arose  more  from  that  recklessness  of  the  future, 
characteristic  of  the  Irish  temperament,  or  the  singular 
confidence  in  destiny  which  is  so  common  a  trait  in  men 
of  ideal  tendencies.  It  would  naturally  be  supposed, 
that  the  stern  lesson  of  severe  experience  would  have 
eventually  corrected  this  want  of  foresight.  It  was  but 
the  thoughtlessness  of  youth  wThich  lured  him  to  forget 
amid  the  convivialities  of  a  party,  the  vessel  on  board 
which  he  had  taken  passage  and  embarked  his  effects,  on 
his  first  experiment  in  travelling ;  but  later  in  life,  we 
find  him  wandering  out  on  the  first  evening  of  his  arrival 
in  Edinburgh,  without  noting  the  street  or  number  of  his 


GOLDSMITH. 


43 


lodgings  ;  inviting  a  party  of  strangers  in  a  public  gar- 
den to  take  tea  with  him,  without  a  sixpence  in  his  pocket.  ; 
and  obstinately  persisting,  during  his  last  illness,  in 
taking  a  favourite  medicine,  notwithstanding  it  aggravated 
his  disease.  A  life  of  greater  vicissitude  it  would  be 
difficult  to  find  in  the  annals  of  literature.  Butler  and 
Otway  were,  indeed,  victims  of  indigence,  and  often 
perhaps,  found  themselves,  like  our  bard,  "  in  a  ganvt 
writing  for  bread,  and  expecting  every  moment  to  be 
dunned  for  a  milk-score,"  but  the  biography  of  Gold- 
smith displays  a  greater  variety  of  shifts  resorted  to  for 
subsistence.  He  was  successively  an  itinerant  musician, 
a  half-starved  usher,  a  chemist's  apprentice,  private  tutor, 
law-student,  practising  physician,  eager  disputant,  hack- 
writer, and  even,  for  a  week  or  two,  one-of  a  company 
of  strolling  players.  In  the  History  of  George  Prim- 
rose, he  is  supposed  to  have  described  much  of  his  per- 
sonal experience  prior  to  the  period  when  he  became  a 
professed  litterateur.  We  cannot  but  respect  the  inde- 
pendent spirit  he  maintained  through  all  these  struggles 
with  adverse  fortune.  Notwithstanding  his  poverty,  the 
attempt  to  chain  his  talents  to  the  service  of  a  political 
faction  by  mercenary  motives  was  indignantly  spurned, 
and  when  his  good  genius  proved  triumphant,  he 
preferred  to  inscribe  its  first  acknowledged  offspring  to  his 
brothel,  than,  according  to  the  servile  habits  of  the  day, 
dedicate  it  to  any  aristocratic  patron,  "  that  thrift  might 
follow  fawning."  With  all  his  incapacity  for  assuming 
dignity,  Goldsmith  never  seems  to  have  forgotten  the 
self-respect  becoming  one  of  nature's  nobility. 

The  high  degree  of  excellence  attained  by  Goldsmith 
in  such  various  and  distinct  species  of  literary  effort,  is 
worthy  of  remark.    As  an  essayist  he  has  contributed 
some  of  the  most  pure  and  graceful  specimens  of  Eng 
lish  prose  discoverable  in  the  whole  range  of  literature 


44 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


His  best  comedy  continues  to  maintain  much  of  its  ori- 
ginal popularity,  notwithstanding  the  revolutions  which 
public  taste  has  undergone  since  it  was  first  produced  ; 
and  "  The  Hermit  "  is  still  an  acknowledged  model  in 
ballad-writing.  If  from  his  more  finished  works,  we 
turn  to  those  which  were  thrown  off  under  the  pressing 
exigencies  of  his  life,  it  is  astonishing  what  a  contrast  of 
subjects  employed  his  pen.  During  his  college  days,  he 
was  constantly  writing  ballads  on  popular  events,  which 
he  disposed  of  at  five  shillings  each,  and  subsequently, 
after  his  literary  career  had  fairly  commenced,  we  find  him 
sedulously  occupied  in  preparing  prefaces,  historical  com- 
pilations, translations,  and  reviews  for  the  booksellers  ; 
one  day  throwing  off  a  pamphlet  on  the  Cock-Lane  Ghost, 
and  the  next  inditing  Biographical  Sketches  of  Beau 
Nash  ;  at  one  moment,  busy  upon  a  festive  song,  and  at 
another  deep  in  composing  the  words  for  an  Oratorio.  It 
is  curious,  with  the  intense  sentiment  and  finished  pictures 
of  fashionable  life  with  which  the  fictions  of  our  day 
abound,  fresh  in  the  memory,  to  open  the  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field. We  seem  to  be  reading  the  memoirs  of  an  earlier 
era,  instead  of  a  different  sphere  of  life.  There  are  no 
wild  and  improbable  incidents,  no  startling  views,  and 
with  the  exception  of  Burchell's  incognito,  no  attempt  to 
excite  interest  through  the  attraction  of  mystery.  And 
yet,  few  novels  have  enjoyed  such  extensive  and  perma- 
nent favour.  It  is  yet  the  standard  work  for  introducing 
students  on  the  continent  to  a  knowledge  of  our  language, 
and  although  popular  taste  at  present  demands  quite  a 
different  style  of  entertainment,  yet  Goldsmith's  novel  is 
often  reverted  to  with  delight,  from  the  vivid  contrast  it 
presents  to  the  reigning  school ;  while  the  attractive  pic- 
ture it  affords  of  rural  life  and  humble  virtue,  will  evei 
render  it  intrinsically  dear  and  valuable. 

But  the  "  Deserted  Village  "  is,  of  all  Goldsmith's  pro- 


GOLDSMITH. 


45 


ductions,  unquestionably  the  favourite.  It  carries  back 
the  mind  to  the  early  season  of  life,  and  re-asserts  the 
power  of  unsophisticated  tastes.  Hence,  while  other  po- 
ems grow  stale,  this  preserves  its  charm.  Dear  to  the 
heart  and  sacred  to  the  imagination,  are  those  sweet  de- 
lineations of  unperverted  existence.  There  is  true  pa- 
thos in  that  tender  lament  over  the  superseded  sports  and 
ruined  haunts  of  rustic  enjoyment,  which  never  fails  to 
find  a  response  in  every  feeling  breast.  It  is  an  elabo- 
rate and  touching  epitaph,  written  in  the  cemetery  of  the 
world,  over  what  is  dear  to  all  humanity.  There  is  a 
truth  in  the  eloquent  defence  of  agricultural  pursuits  and 
natural  pastimes,  that  steals  like  a  well-remembered  strain 
over  the  heart  immersed  in  the  toil  and  crowds  of  cities. 
There  is  an  unborn  beauty  in  the  similes  of  the  bird  and 
her  "  unfledged  offspring,"  the  hare  that  "  pants  to  the 
place  from  whence  at  first  he  flew,"  and  the  u  tall  cliff 
that  lifts  its  awful  form,"  which,  despite  their  familiarity, 
retain  their  power  to  delight.  And  no  clear  and  suscep- 
tible mind  can  ever  lose  its  interest  in  the  unforced,  un- 
exaggerated  and  heart-stirring  numbers,  which  animate 
with  pleasure  the  pulses  of  youth,  gratify  the  mature 
taste  of  manhood,  and  fall  with  a  soothing  sweetness 
upon  the  ear  of  age. 

We  are  not  surprised  at  the  exclamation  of  a  young 
lady  who  had  been  accustomed  to  say,  that  our  poet  was 
the  homeliest  of  men,  after  reading  the  "  Deserted  Village" 
— "  I  shall  never  more  think  Dr.  Goldsmith  ugly  !"  This 
poem  passed  through  five  editions  in  as  many  months, 
and  from  its  domestic  character  became  immediately 
popular  throughout  England.  Its  melodious  versifica- 
tion is  doubtless,  in  a  measure,  to  be  ascribed  to  its  au- 
thor's musical  taste,  and  the  fascinating  ease  of  its  flow 
is  the  result  of  long  study  and  careful  revision.  Nothing 
is  more  deceitful  than  the  apparent  facility  observable  in 


46 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


poetry.  No  poet  exhibits  more  of  this  characteristic  than 
Ariosto,  and  yet  his  manuscripts  are  filled  with  erasures 
and  repetitions.  Few  things  appear  more  negligently 
graceful  than  the  well-arranged  drapery  of  a  statue,  yet 
how  many  experiments  must  the  artist  try  before  the  de- 
sired effect  is  produced.  So  thoroughly  did  the  author 
revise  the  "  Deserted  Village,"  that  not  a  single  original 
line  remained.  The  clearness  and  warmth  of  his  style 
is,  to  my  mind,  as  indicative  of  Goldsmith's  truth,  as  the 
candour  of  his  character  or  the  sincerity  of  his  sentiments. 
It  has  been  said  of  Pitt's  elocution,  that  it  had  the  effect 
of  impressing  one  with  the  idea  that  the  man  was  greater 
than  the  orator.  A  similar  influence  it  seems  to  me  is 
produced  by  the  harmonious  versification  and  elegant  dic- 
tion of  Goldsmith. 

It  is  not,  indeed,  by  an  analysis,  however  critical,  of 
the  intellectual  distinctions  of  any  author,  that  we  can 
arrive  at  a  complete  view  of  his  genius.  It  is  to  the  feel- 
ings that  we  must  look  for  that  earnestness  which  gives 
vigour  to  mental  efforts,  and  imparts  to  them  their  peculiar 
tone  and  colouring.  And  it  will  generally  be  found  that 
what  is  really  and  permanently  attractive  in  the  works  of 
genius,  independent  of  mere  diction,  is  to  be  traced  rather 
to  the  heart  than  the  head.  We  may  admire  the  origi- 
nal conception,  the  lofty  imagery  or  winning  style  of  a 
popular  author,  but  what  touches  us  most  deeply  is  the 
sentiment  of  which  these  are  the  vehicles.  The  fertile 
invention  of  Petrarch,  in  displaying  under  such  a  variety 
of  disguises  the  same  favourite  subject,  is  not  so  moving 
as  the  unalterable  devotion  which  inspires  his  fancy  and 
quickens  his  muse.  The  popularity  of  Mrs.  Hemans  is 
more  owing  to  the  delicate  and  deep  enthusiasm  than  to 
the  elegance  of  her  poetry,  and  Charles  Lamb  is  not  less 
attractive  for  his  kindly  affections  than  for  his  quaint  hu- 
mour.   Not  a  little  of  the  peculiar  charm  of  Goldsmith,  is 


GOLDSMITH. 


47 


attributable  to  the  excellence  of  his  heart.  Mere  talent 
would  scarcely  have  sufficed  to  interpret  and  display  so 
enchantingly  the  humble  characters  and  scenes  to  which 
his  most  brilliant  efforts  were  devoted.  It  was  his  sin- 
cere and  ready  sympathy  with  man,  his  sensibility  to  suf- 
fering in  every  form,  his  strong  social  sentiment  and  his 
amiable  interest  in  all  around,  which  brightened  to  his 
mind's  eye,  what  to  the  less  susceptible  is  unheeded  and 
obscure.  Naturally  endowed  with  free  and  keen  sensi- 
bilities, his  own  experience  of  privation  prevented  them 
from  indurating  through  age  or  prosperity.  He  cherished 
throughout  his  life  an  earnest  faith  in  the  better  feelings 
of  our  nature.  He  realized  the  universal  beauty  and 
power  of  Love ;  and  neither  the  solitary  pursuits  of  lite- 
rature, the  elation  of  success,  nor  the  blandishments  of 
pleasure  or  society,  ever  banished  from  his  bosom  the 
generous  and  kindly  sentiments  which  adorned  his  char- 
acter. He  was  not  the  mere  creature  of  attainment,  the 
reserved  scholar  or  abstracted  dreamer.  Pride  of  intel- 
lect usurped  not  his  heart.  Pedantry  congealed  not  the 
fountains  of  feeling.  He  rejoiced  in  the  exercise  of  all 
those  tender  and  noble  sentiments  which  are  so  much 
more  honourable  to  man  than  the  highest  triumphs  of 
mind.  And  it  is  these  which  make  us  love  the  man  not 
less  than  admire  the  author.  Goldsmith's  early  sympa- 
thy with  the  sufferings  of  the  peasantry,  is  eloquently 
expressed  in  both  his  poems  and  frequently  in  his  prose 
writings.  How  expressive  that  lament  for  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  1  Ale-House  ' — that  it  would 

*  No  more  impart 
An  hour's  importance  to  the  poor  man's  heart.' 

There  is  more  true  benevolence  in  the  feeling  which 
prompted  such  a  thought,  than  in  all  the  cold  and  calcu- 
lating philosophy  with  which  so  many  expect  to  elevate 


48 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


the  lower  classes  in  these  days  of  ultra-reform.  AVhen 
shall  we  learn  that  we  must  sympathize  with  those  we 
would  improve  ?  At  college,  we  are  told,  one  bitter  night 
Goldsmith  encountered  a  poor  woman  and  her  infants 
shivering  at  the  gate,  and  having  no  money  to  give  them, 
bringing  out  all  his  bed-clothes  to  keep  himself  from 
freezing,  cut  open  his  bed  and  slept  within  it.  When 
hard  at  work  earning  a  scanty  pittance  in  his  garret,  he 
spent  every  spare  penny  in  cakes  for  the  children  of  his 
poorer  neighbours,  and  when  he  could  do  nothing  else, 
taught  them  dancing  by  way  of  cheering  their  poverty. 
Notwithstanding  his  avowed  antipathy  to  Baretti,  he  vis- 
ited and  relieved  him  in  prison ;  and  when  returning 
home  with  the  100Z.  received  from  his  bookseller  for  the 
'  Deserted  Village,'  upon  being  told  by  an  acquaintance 
he  fell  in  with,  that  it  was  a  great  price  for  so  little  a 
thing,  replied,  '  Perhaps  it  is  more  than  he  can  afford,' 
and  returning,  offered  to  refund  a  part.  To  his  poor  coun- 
trymen he  was  a  constant  benefactor,  and  while  he  had  a 
shilling  was  ready  to  share  it  with  them,  so  that  they  fa- 
miliarly styled  him  1  our  doctor.'  In  Ley  den,  when  on 
the  point  of  commencing  his  tour,  he  stripped  himself  of 
all  his  funds  to  send  a  collection  of  flower-roots  to  an  un- 
cle who  was  devoted  to  botany  ;  and  on  the  first  occasion 
that  patronage  was  offered  him,  declined  aid  for  himself, 
to  bespeak  a  vacant  living  for  his  brother.  In  truth,  his 
life  abounds  in  anecdotes  of  a  like  nature.  We  read  one 
day  of  his  pawning  his  watch  for  Pilkington,  another  of 
his  bringing  home  a  poor  foreigner  from  Temple  gardens 
to  be  his  amanuensis,  and  again  ot  his  leaving  the  card- 
table  to  relieve  a  poor  woman,  whose  tones  as  she  chanted 
some  ditty  in  passing,  came  to  him  above  the  hum  of 
gaiety  and  indicated  to  his  ear  distress.  Though  the  fre- 
quent and  undeserved  subject  of  literary  abuse,  he  was 
never  known  to  write  severely  against  any  one. 


GOLDSMITH. 


49 


His  talents  were  sacredly  devoted  to  the  cause  of  virtue 
and  humanity.  No  malignant  satire  ever  came  from  his 
pen.  He  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  beautiful  vindications 
in  Nature  of  the  paternity  of  God,  and  expatiate  upon  the 
noblest  and  most  universal  attributes  of  man.  1  If  I 
were  to  love  you  by  rule,'  he  writes  to  his  brother,  1 1 
dare  say  I  never  could  do  it  sincerely.'  There  was  in 
his  nature,  an  instinctive  aversion  to  the  frigid  ceremo- 
nial and  meaningless  professions  which  so  coldly  imitate 
the  language  of  feeling.  Goldsmith  saw  enough  of  the 
world,  to  disrobe  his  mind  of  that  scepticism  born  of  cus- 
tom which  '  makes  dotards  of  us  all.'  He  did  not  wan- 
der among  foreign  nations,  sit  at  the  cottage  fire-side,  nor 
mix  in  the  thoroughfare  and  gay  saloon,  in  vain.  Travel 
liberalized  his  views  and  demolished  the  barriers  of  local 
prejudice.  He  looked  around  upon  his  kind  with  the 
charitable  judgment  and  interest  born  of  on  observing 
mind  and  a  kindly  heart — '  with  an  infinite  love,  an  infi- 
nite pity.'  He  delighted  in  the  delineation  of  humble 
life,  because  he  knew  it  to  be  the  most  unperverted. 
Simple  pleasures  warmed  his  fancy  because  he  had  learn- 
ed their  preeminent  truth.  Childhood  with  its  innocent 
playfulness,  intellectual  character  with  its  tutored  wis- 
dom, and  the  uncultivated  but  '  bold  peasantry,'  interested 
him  alike.  He  could  enjoy  an  hour's  friendly  chat  with 
his  fellow-lodger — the  watchmaker  in  Green  Arbor 
Court — not  less  than  a  literary  discussion  with  Dr.  John- 
son. '  I  must  own,'  he  writes,  '  I  should  prefer  the  title 
of  the  ancient  philosopher,  viz.  ;  a  Citizen  of  the  World, 
— to  that  of  an  Englishman,  a  Frenchman,  an  European, 
or  that  of  any  appellation  whatever.'  And  this  title  he 
has  nobly  earned,  by  the  wide  scope  of  his  sympathies 
and  the  beautiful  pictures  of  life  and  nature  universally 
recognized  and  universally  loved,  which  have  spread  his 
name  over  the  world.    Pilgrims  to  the  supposed  scene  of 


50 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


the  Deserted  Village  have  long  since  carried  away  every 
vestige  of  the  hawthorn  at  Lissoy,  but  the  laurels  of 
Goldsmith  will  never  be  garnered  by  the  hand  of  time, 
or  blighted  by  the  frost  of  neglect,  as  long  as  there  are 
minds  to  appreciate,  or  hearts  to  reverence  the  household 
lore  of  English  literature. 


GRAY. 


Countless  are  the  modifications  of  the  poetic  faculty. 
In  some  natures  it  is  fervent  and  occasional  ;  in  others, 
calm  and  prevailing.  In  the  impassioned  heart  it  is  a 
necessary  channel  for  the  healthy  development  of  feel- 
ing ;  in  the  contemplative  and  gentle  bosom  it  sheds  a 
patient  and  soothing  light,  like  the  beams  of  the  moon  on 
the  current  of  reflection.  It  is  "  an  ocean  to  the  river  of 
his  thoughts  "  to  one  man,  bearing  in  one  direction  his 
every  idea  and  sentiment,  colouring  with  a  gloomy  shade 
or  rosy  glow  his  conversation  and  his  reveries,  and 
weaving  an  illusive  atmosphere  around  every  phase  of  his 
experience.  To  another  it  is  a  subordinate  element,  de- 
pendent for  its  activity  upon  rare  excitement  and  only 
tinging,  almost  imperceptibly,  the  pictures  of  memory  and 
hope.  Burns  turned  to  poetry  as  a  requisite  medium  of 
expression,  the  natural  language  of  his  soul.  Byron 
found  in  its  free  and  glowing  strains  a  response  to  the 
earnest  pleadings  of  his  heart.  To  Goldsmith  it  seems  a 
mirror  for  the  beautiful  sentiments  he  cherished ;  to 
Moore,  a  graceful  echo  for  his  patriotic  and  convivial 
sympathies.  Poets  of  this  class  may  be  said  to  cultivate 
verse  because  to  them  life  has  touching  mysteries  and 
earnest  meanings  which  verse  can  best  interpret.  But 
there  is  another  species  of  rhymers  to  whom  poetry  is 
rather  a  pleasant  accident  than  a  necessity,  a  quiet  senti- 
ment rather  than  an  ardent  passion,  a  subject  of  taste 


52 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


more  than  of  feeling1.  To  this  order  of  versifiers  we  are 
often  indebted  for  the  advancement  of  poetry  as  an  art. 
Their  muse  is  sufficiently  tranquil  to  be  guided  with 
great  circumspection.  They  accordingly  have  the  even- 
ness of  pulse  and  the  calmness  of  eye  which  is  wanted 
to  select,  compare,  revise  and  polish.  Their  effusions 
often  exhibit  a  metrical  ingenuity,  a  choice  of  words  and 
a  nicety  of  design  and  finish  which  admirably  serve  to 
refine  the  standard  of  poetic  taste.  Before  these  classic 
models  careless  habits  of  versification  gradually  disap- 
pear. Correctness  comes  to  be  regarded  as  an  essential 
quality  of  standard  verse.  In  a  word,  the  man  of  ardent 
fancy  and  strong  feelings  is  forced  to  acknowledge  that 
art  is  as  necessary  for  the  success  of  his  poem  as  nature. 

The  thoughts  which  demand  utterance  must  be  array- 
ed in  a  form  beautiful  from  its  symmetry  and  true  con- 
struction. The  casket  must  be  elaborately  finished,  or 
the  gems  it  enshrines  will  scarcely  be  appreciated.  And 
thus,  by  degrees,  poetical  diction  and  metre  became 
varied  in  beauty  and  elevated  in  style ;  and  the  bard 
often  exhibits  as  much  genius  in  the  felicitous  arrange- 
ment as  in  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  his  musings. 
Among  the  poetic  artists  who  have  furnished  highly  fin- 
ished exemplars  of  English  poesy,  is  Thomas  Gray. 
Although  but  a  small  contributor,  as  regards  the  amount, 
to  the  jewels  of  the  lyric  crown,  he  is  one  of  the  most 
successful  of  those  who  have  brought  the  chaste  work- 
manship of  the  scholar  to  the  service  of  the  muse. 

No  frenzy  of  youthful  sentiment  hurried  Gray  into 
poetry.  He  was  always  more  absorbed  with  the  crea- 
tions of  other  minds  than  his  own.  Perhaps  the  strong- 
est tendency  of  his  nature  was  the  liberal  curiosity  which 
made  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  so  dear  to  him  that  he 
was  content  to  become  a  priest  at  her  shrine.  He  turned 
not  from  the  sequestered  walks  of  college  life,  to  plunge 


GRAY. 


53 


into  the  excitements  of  a  professional  career.  His  youth- 
ful draughts  at  the  "  Pierian  spring,"  instead  of  bracing 
him  for  immediate  action  in  the  sphere  of  the  world,  only- 
awakened  a  deeper  thirst ;  and  although,  to  please  his 
relatives,  he  became  nominally  a  bachelor  of  laws,  his 
entire  life  was  in  fact  that  of  a  devoted  scholar.  He 
studied  with  no  purpose  of  immediate  utility,  but  to  sat- 
isfy that  craving  for  large  and  varied  knowledge  which 
was  his  ruling  passion.  He  presents  one  of  those  singu- 
lar exceptions,  so  rarely  found  among  men  of  talent  in 
England,  by  whom  retirement  and  books  are  deliberately 
chosen  in  preference  to  politics,  diplomacy,  a  profession  or 
authorship.  In  the  south  of  Europe,  where  despotism 
so  effectually  closes  the  avenues  to  distinction,  it  is  in- 
deed a  common  thing  to  see  intellectual  men  devote  them- 
selves unobtrusively  to  the  pursuit  of  some  branch  of 
science  or  literature.  Many  an  enthusiast  reaches  a 
happy  old  age  in  chase  of  his  favourite  phantom.  Ques- 
tions in  philology,  historical  researches,  the  study  of  an- 
tiquities, and  various  other  fields  of  mental  exercise,  be- 
guile minds  that  would  fain,  in  the  prime  of  their 
activity,  have  sought  more  genial  and  original  occupation. 
But  in  England  and  the  United  States  the  gifted  and 
educated  man,  of  limited  means,  is  soon  drawn  into  the 
vortex  of  action,  and  becomes  a  competitor  for  the  prizes 
of  life.  There  is  something  in  the  very  blood  of  the 
North  which  prompts  her  children  to  usefulness  and 
honour.  It  requires  no  little  resolution  to  stand  aside  and 
look  on,  when  all  around  are  in  hot  pursuit  of  wealth  and 
fame.  Cowper  indeed  fled  from  the  crowd,  but  he  was 
driven  by  a  sad  necessity.  Gray  perhaps  felt  his  want  of 
adaptation  to  general  society  and  ordinary  toil.  He  was 
quite  unambitious,  of  a  delicate  constitution,  and  without 
that  practical  tact  which  insures  success.  There  is  some- 
thing not  altogether  selfish  and  unworthv  in  the  philoso- 
4 


5i 


THOUGHTS   ON    THE  POETS. 


phy  he  professed,  which  made  him  content  to  limit  his 
wants  to  his  income,  to  linger  about  the  scene  of  his  early- 
education,  and  hold  communion  with  that  "  ample  page, 
rich  with  the  spoils  of  time ;"  gleaning  every  day  some 
new  and  valuable  information,  maintaining  his  own  in- 
tegrity, respecting  the  rights  of  others,  and  calmly  living 
in  amiable  and  modest  scholarship.  As  a  general  rule, 
indeed,  this  seclusion,  this  exclusive  devotion  to  personal 
improvement,  however  laudable,  is  not  to  be  desired.  We 
are  born  to  act  and  suffer  with  others,  to  cherish  social 
sympathies,  and  through  them  minister  to  general  good. 
Even  as  students  it  were  better  to  act  upon  the  generous 
sentiment  of  Sir  Thomas  Brown :  "  I  study  not  for 
myself  alone,  but  for  those  who  cannot  study  for  them- 
selves." 

We  would  have  the  poet  seek  his  inspiration  amid  the 
scenes  of  perplexity,  sorrow  and  joy  that  make  up  human 
life;  we  would  have  him  sometimes,  like  Burns,  "put 
himself  upon  the  regimen  of  admiring  a  fine  woman  ;"  like 
Wordsworth,  analyse  the  influence  of  scenery  in  training 
the  simple  and  true  soul ;  and,  like  Byron,  throw  him- 
self in  the  way  of  the  ancient,  the  beautiful  and  the  ad- 
venturous, and  reflect  in  his  page  the  emotions  they 
excite.  But  an  occasional  hermit  among  the  poets  is 
pleasing  and  picturesque,  even  though  his  hermitage  is  a 
library  instead  of  a  grotto.  Gray  passed  a  life  of  self- 
improvement.  The  most  striking  trait  both  of  his  muse 
and  his  character  is  refinement.  He  was  one  of  those 
men  who  find  their  chief  gratification  in  serene  enjoy- 
ments. He  loved  to  have  every  thing  neat  around  him. 
How  easily  can  we  fancy  his  small  but  nicely  arranged 
figure  in  that  orderly,  bacheloric  room  of  his  at  Cam- 
bridge. There  are  his  books  carefully  arranged,  his  case 
of  medallions  and  portfolios  of  engravings  collected  dur- 
ing his  Italian  tour,  "  a  pair  of  large  blue  and  white  old 


GRAY. 


55 


japan  China  jars,"  bequeathed  by  will  to  his  cousin  ; — 
there  are  a  harpsichord  and  music  fairly  copied  by  his 
own  hand,  lying  by ; — boxes  of  mignionetle  and  other 
plants  adorn  the  window  ;  there  is  a  tortoise-shell  cat,  a 
vase  of  gold  fish,  and  on  the  table  a  blood-stone  seal 
and  beautiful  inkstand.  Every  thing  bespeaks  order, 
quietude,  and  tranquil  fancies. 

And  here  the  man, 1  tiny  and  tiresome,'  as  he  calls  him- 
self, sat  day  after  day,  thoroughly  acquiring  Greek  litera- 
ture— divining  the  mysteries  of  heraldry  and  genealogy, 
mastering  the  principles  of  architecture,  reading  botany, 
history  and  poetry,  or  writing  letters  to  his  friends  Dr. 
Wharton,  Middleton,  Mason  or  Beattie.  He  goes  forth 
only  to  seek  some  desired  tome  at  the  library,  to  dine  or 
pass  an  hour  at  the  reading-room.  Nothing  but  the 
rudeness  of  some  fellow-lodgers  induces  him  to  change 
his  quarters.  He  visits  London  occasionally,  and  once 
abides  there  for  the  space  of  three  years,  for  the  sake  of 
copying  some  manuscripts  at  the  British  Museum.  With 
all  his  temperance,  he  is  afflicted  with  gout.  His  health 
fails  ;  he  has  times  of  low  spirits.  To  improve  his  physi- 
cal condition  and  cheer  his  mind,  he  has  recourse  to  the 
never-failing  means — a  journey — and  visits,  at  different 
seasons,  the  English  lakes,  Scotland  and  Wales,  enjoying 
their  fine  scenery  and  writing  pleasant  descriptive  letters 
on  the  subject.  And  thus  glided  away  the  existence  of 
Gray,  until  the  disease  under  which  he  suffered  attacked 
a  vital  part,  and  in  two  or  three  days  he  calmly  departed 
and  was  buried  beside  his  mother  in  the  church-yard  of 
Stoke. 

The  affections  which  have  so  large  a  share  in  kindling 
the  poetry  of  most  bards,  exerted  but  a  limited  sway  over 
the  intellectual  career  of  Gray.  The  two  beings  who 
seem  most  deeply  to  have  interested  him  were  his  mother 
and  his  college-friend,  Richard  West.    To  the  former  he 


50 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


owed  his  education  and  all  that  was  happy  in  the  associa- 
tion of  his  childhood.  He  was  an  attached  son  and  sin- 
gularly blessed  in  one  of  his  parents ;  and  after  her  de- 
cease, never  alluded  to  her  without  a  sigh.  West  for 
eight  years  was  bound  to  him  not  only  by  youthful  at- 
tachment but  congenial  taste.  Their  correspondence  is 
manly  and  confiding.  When  Gray's  last  letter  to  his 
friend  was  returned  to  him  unopened,  with  the  news  of 
his  death,  he  felt  that  one  of  his  sweetest  ties  to  life  was 
broken.  They  had  long  communicated  to  each  other  the 
progress  of  their  studies,  submitting  to  each  other's  inspec- 
tion their  first  attempts  in  verse,  and  seeking  and  finding 
mutual  encouragement  by  strewing  the  pathway  of  early 
application  with  the  flowers  of  friendship. 

Gray  paid  a  tribute  to  his  friend  in  the  following 
sonnet : 

In  vain  to  me  the  smiling  mornings  shine, 

And  redd'ning  Phoebus  lifts  his  golden  fire  : 
The  birds  in  vain  their  amorous  descant  join, 

Or  cheerful  fields  resume  their  green  atlire: 
These  can,  alas  !  for  other  notes  repine, 

A  different  object  do  these  eyes  require  : 
My  lonely  anguish  melts  no  heart  but  mine, 

And  in  my  breast  the  imperfect  joys  expire. 
Yet  morning  smiles  the  busy  race  to  cheer, 

And  new-born  pleasure  brings  to  happier  men  : 
The  fields  to  all  their  wonted  tribute  bear  ; 

To  warm  their  little  loves  the  birds  complain  : 
I  fruitless  mourn  to  him  that  cannot  hear, 

And  weep  the  more  because  I  weep  in  vain. 

West  was  a  youth  of  rare  promise.  His  early  death 
and  the  subsequent  loss  of  the  poet's  mother  evidently 
colour  the  early  efforts  of  Gray's  muse.  These  bereave- 
ments narrowed  the  already  small  circle  of  his  sympa- 
thies. They  led  nim  to  regard  the  aims  of  the  multi- 
tude with  more  indifference  than  ever,  and  doubtless  in- 


GRAY. 


57 


duced  the  tone  of  distrust  of  life's  promises  which  mark 
his  best  verses.  The  most  buoyant  era  of  Gray's  exis- 
tence, if  we  judge  by  his  letters,  was  the  period  of  his 
absence  on  the  continent.  He  was  fresh  from  his  college 
studies  when,  at  the  invitation  of  his  fellow-student  and 
friend,  Horace  Walpole,  he  accompanied  him  to  France 
and  Italy.  Every  thing  was  novel  and  attractive  to  the 
mind  of  Gray.  He  mingled  enough  with  society  to  grat- 
ify his  curiosity.  He  was  indefatigable  in  his  study  of 
the  remains  of  antiquity  and  the  fine  arts.  Among  his 
papers  were  found  notes,  speculative  as  well  as  matter  of 
fact,  respecting  the  old  masters  and  the  customs  of  the 
ancients,  which  prove  his  discrimination  and  taste.  His 
muse  seems  to  have  been  first  inspired  by  the  rugged  pre- 
cipices, the  rocky  chasms  and  dark  pines  of  the  moun- 
tains where  the  convent  of  the  Grand  Chartense  is  situ- 
ated. He  dwells  upon  the  romantic  impressions  he  there 
derived,  and  wrote  a  Latin  ode  on  the  subject  in  the  al- 
bum of  the  monks.  After  the  two  friends,  like  most  fel- 
low-travellers who  keep  together  too  long,  differed  and 
parted,  Gray  returned  speedily  to  England.  The  bard's 
biographers  speak  of  this  event  more  seriously  than 
it  deserves,  and  declare  very  emphatically  that  Wal- 
pole acknowledged  himself  in  fault  when  they  were  af- 
terwards reconciled.  From  what  we  know  of  the  two 
men,  the  only  wonder  is  that  they  found  it  agreeable  to 
remain  so  long  together.  Walpole,  with  his  gaiety  and 
love  of  pleasure,  could  scarcely  have  proved  a  genial  com- 
panion, for  any  length  of  time,  to  a  man  who  viewed 
things  with  the  seriousness  of  Gray  and  wished  to  make 
a  study  of  every  thing  he  saw.  They  are  thought  to  be 
the  first  English  travellers  who  visited  the  remains  of 
Herculaneum,  which  were  discovered  a  few  days  be- 
fore they  reached  Naples. 

It  was  the  constitutional  diffidence  of  Gray  that  in- 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


duced  him  to  remark  that  he  could  perceive  no  medium 
between  a  public  and  private  life.  Upon  this  idea  he 
habitually  acted.  He  refused  the  laureateship  ;  and  al- 
though he  accepted  a  professorship  of  history,  never 
lectured. 

It  is  quite  characteristic  that  at  a  ball  at  Rome,  which 
he  describes  in  one  of  his  letters,  he  retired  to  a  corner 
and  amused  himself  with  looking  on  and  eating  ices, 
while  his  companions  were  absorbed  in  the  dance.  He 
never  proposed  to  himself  the  honours  of  a  poet.  His 
verses  were  kept  by  him,  frequently  revised  and  at  first 
only  circulated  in  manuscript,  and  originally  appeared  in 
print  without  his  intervention.  Common  cares  over- 
whelmed him.  His  conscientiousness  is  also  manifest 
throughout  his  correspondence.  He  suffered  great  self- 
reproach  for  every  seeming  neglect  of  duty,  and  cheer- 
fully resigned  a  legacy  to  a  relative  poorer  than  himself. 

The  poetry  of  Gray  is,  like  his  life  and  character,  cor- 
rect, scholar-like  and  reflective.  It  is  singularly  free 
from  all  trace  of  impulse  and  fervour.  Its  most  striking 
beauties  are  verbal,  and  the  trait  which  mainly  charms 
us  is  that  of  choice  expression  or  elegance  of  diction. 
Art  predominates  in  every  line.  There  is  little  creative 
energy,  little  divine  earnestness  or  exuberant  fancy.  All 
is  chaste,  appropriate  and  carefully  elaborated.  The 
point  at  which  we  recognise  what  is  individual  and 
therefore  afTecting  in  Gray's  poems,  is  pathos.  He  did 
not  possess  that  comprehensive  sympathy  essential  to 
dramatic  writing.  The  fragment  of  his  tragedy,  Agrip- 
pina,  betrays  a  familiarity  with  classic  models,  and  pos- 
sesses a  certain  felicity  of  language,  but  beyond  this 
promises  little  and  was  wisely  abandoned.  A  large  por- 
tion of  his  limited  writings  consist  of  translations  from  the 
Latin,  Norse  and  Welsh  poets  ;  and  his  early  taste,  led 
him  to  confine  his  poetical  efforts  to  the  former  language. 


GRAY. 


69 


His  English  poems  have  little  descriptive  merit,  and  in 
the  few  attempts  he  made  in  the  way  of  humour  must 
be  deemed  unsuccessful.  But  when  his  muse  obeyed 
the  thoughtful  and  melancholy  view  which  constituted 
the  most  genuine  poetical  phase  of  his  mind,  we  are  car 
ried  along  by  her  solemn  but  pleasing  strain  and  feel  the 
true  inspiration  of  pathos  subdued  in  its  expression  by 
reflection  and  taste.  "  Gray,"  said  Walpole,  "  was  never 
a  boy."  His  solitary  vigils  amid  the  philosophers  and 
poets  of  antiquity,  his  recluse  habits,  his  early  bereave 
ments,  his  thoughtful  temper,  all  fitted  him  to  muse  and 
to  moralise  over  the  serious  aspect  of  life.  Yet  his  p.t 
thos  is  never  obtrusive  or  forced,  but  flows  with  a  native 
and  winning  beauty.  Even  in  the  simple  epitaph  h^ 
inscribed  upon  his  mother's  tomb  we  recognise  this  quk°i 
yet  none  the  less  touching  sadness  that  distinguishes  his 
poetry : 

"  Here 
Sleep  the  Remains 
of 

Dorothy  Gray,  Widow; 
The  careful,  tender  mother  of  many  children; 
One  of  whom  alone  had  the  misfortune  to  survive  her." 

The  very  subject  of  most  of  his  verses  indicates  a  phi 
iosophic  sadness.  The  "  Ode  on  a  Distant  Prospect  <>t 
Eton  College,"  is  but  the  reminiscence  of  a  man  regret- 
ful of  departed  youth  : 

Ah,  happy  hills  !  ah,  pleasing  shade  ! 
Ah,  fields  beloved  in  vain  ! 
j  Where  once  my  eareless  childhood  strayed, 

A  stranger  yet  to  pain ! 

How  feelingly  he  anticipates  the  coming  experience  of 
the  sporting  boys  ! 

Alas  !  regardless  of  their  doom, 
The  little  victims  play ; 


60 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


No  sense  have  they  of  ills  to  come  ; 

No  care  beyond  to-day: 
Yet  see  how  all  around  them  wait 
The  ministers  of  human  fate, 

And  black  misfortune's  baleful  train  I 
Ah,  show  them  where  in  ambush  stand, 
To  seize  their  prey,  the  murth'rous  band  ! 

And  tell  them  they  are  men  ! 

His  preference  of  quiet  pleasures  and  the  consolations 
of  "  a  thinking  mind  self-occupied,"  is  portrayed  in  the 
ode  on  Vicissitude  : 

Smiles  on  past  misfortune's  brow 

Soft  reflection's  hand  can  trace  ; 
And  o'er  the  cheek  of  sorrow  throw 

A  melancholy  grace. 
*  *  *  *  * 

The  hues  of  bliss  more  brightly  glow 
Chastis'd  by  sabler  tints  of  wo  ; 
And  blended,  form  with  artful  strife, 
The  strength  and  harmony  of  life. 
***** 

See  the  wretch,  that  long  has  tost 

On  the  stormy  bed  of  pain, 
At  length  repair  his  vigour  lost, 

And  breathe  and  walk  again  : 

The  meanest  floweret  of  the  vale, 

The  simplest  note  that  swells  the  gale, 

The  common  sun,  the  air,  the  skies, 

To  him  are  opening  paradise. 

***** 

Humble  quiet  builds  her  cell 

Near  the  source  whence  pleasure  flows  ! 

She  eyes  the  clear  crystalline  well, 
And  tastes  it  as  it  goes. 

There  are  but  few  bold  and  original  ideas  in  the  odes 
of  Gray,  notwithstanding  their  occasional  beauty  of  ex- 
pression. His  allusion  to  Milton  in  the  Progress  of  Poesy, 
is  striking  : 


GRAY. 


61 


He  passed  the  flaming  bounds  of  place  and  time  : 
The  living  throne,  the  sapphire  blaze, 
Where  angels  tremble  while  they  gaze 
He  saw ;  but,  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
Closed  his  eyes  in  endless  night. 

Perhaps  the  popularity  of  a  line  depends  as  much  upon 
the  happy  choice  of  words  as  the  ideas  it  conveys.  The 
close  of  the  following  stanza  which,  as  a  whole  is  com- 
mon-place enough,  has  passed  into  a  proverb  : 

To  each  his  sufferings  ;  all  are  men, 

Condemned  alike  to  groan  ; 
The  tender  for  another's  pain, 

Th'  unfeeling  for  his  own. 
Yet,  ah  !  why  should  they  know  their  fate, 
Since  sorrow  never  comes  too  late, 

And  happiness  too  swiftly  flies  ? 
Thought  wou]d  destroy  their  paradise 
No  more  ; — where  ignorance  is  bliss, 

'  Tis  folly  to  be  wise. 

The  same  is  true  of  the  following  fine  image  : 

Hark,  his  hands  the  lyre  explore  ! 

Bright-eyed  Fancy  hovering  o'er, 

Scatters  from  her  pictured  urn 

Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn. 

The  beauties  and  deficiencies  of  Gray,  both  as  a  man 
and  a  poet,  are  traceable  to  his  fastidious  taste.  This 
bounded  his  social  nature,  while  it  wove  strong  and  pure 
ties  between  his  mind  and  outward  beauty.  It  rendered 
him  too  careful  in  his  choice  of  intimates  to  give  scope  to 
that  free  cordiality  of  soul  which  distinguishes  poets  of 
deeper  feeling.  It  made  him  pick  his  way  too  scrupu- 
lously through  life,  to  ensure  a  broad  and  healthful  expe- 
rience. It  fostered  that  pride  which  made  him  disavow 
reputation  and  utility,  and  wish  to  pass  for  "  a  gentleman 
who  read  for  his  amusement."    It  restrained  his  muse  by 

a  too  exact  discipline,  but  at  the  same  time  polished  and 
4* 


62 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


refined  into  gems  the  little  she  vouchsafed  to  produce. 
It  marked  in  fact  all  his  habits  and  opinions.  We  see 
it  in  the  neatness  of  his  chirography,  in  the  studied  cor- 
rectness of  his  familiar  epistles,  in  the  adjustment  of  his 
rtire,  the  careful  selection  of  his  rhymes  and  epithets, 
r.he  pains  he  took  in  superintending  the  musical  adapta- 
tion of  his  ode,  and  the  minute  directions  for  his  burial. 
Many,  indeed,  are  the  benefits  resulting  from  a  large 
organ  of  order,  but  there  is  such  a  thing  in  the  progress 
of  the  intellect  and  the  ordering  of  daily  life,  as  being 
*  more  nice  than  wise,"  and  in  this  regard  chiefly  does 
our  poet  seem  to  have  erred.  Of  his  harmless  and 
studious  life,  time  has  fairly  spared  but  one  beautiful 
relic.  His  reputation  as  a  scholar  is  like  a  tale  that  is 
-old  ;  his  odes  are  quite  neglected ;  but  his  "  Elegy  in  a 
Country  Churchyard, "  will  bear  his  name  gracefully 
down  the  tide  of  ages.  It  is  one  of  the  immortal  poems 
of'  the  language,  and  every  year  sees  it  renewed,  illus- 
trated, and  more  and  more  hallowed.  It  is  perfectly 
characteristic  of  Gray.  Almost  every  line  is  a  select 
phrase  not  to  be  improved  by  taste  or  ingenuity.  The 
subject  is  one  of  ^he  happiest  in  the  range  of  poetry.  To 
roam  through  cities  of  the  dead  and  muse  over  the  hum- 
ble names  there  chronicled,  to  ponder  amid  the  tombs 
upon  the  mysteries  of  life,  the  varieties  of  earthly  for- 
tune, the  strange  lot  which  ordains  that  man  should  live 
and  love,  and  then  pass  away  and  be  remembered  no 
n  ore — this  is  no  flight  of  fancy,  but  a  train  of  thought 
and  experience  so  near  the  universal  mind,  so  suggestive 
to  the  heart,  so  familiar  to  the  least  meditative,  that  it 
appeals  at  once  and  with  eloquence  to  all  human  beings. 

We  all  love  to  speculate  upon  the  injustice  of  destiny 
find  the  latent  capacity  of  every  man.  We  feel  that 
"  chill  penury"  has  repressed  the  "  noble  rage"  of  many 
a  gifted  spirit.    We  cherish  an  instinctive  faith  in  the  un- 


GRAY. 


63 


developed  talent,  the  secret  virtue,  the  obscure  excellence 
of  the  millions  who  die  and  "make  no  sign."  And  who 
has  not  strayed  at  sunset  into  the  quiet  precincts  of  a 
country  church-yard?  Who  has  not  sought  the  spot 
where  "  the  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep  ?"  Who 
has  not  felt  a  melancholy  pleasure  steal  upon  his  soul,  as 
he  has  stood  among  the  graves  and  received  the  solemn 
teachings  of  the  scene,  "  amid  the  lingering  light  ?"  The 
spirit  of  such  reveries,  the  tone  and  hues  of  such  a  land- 
scape, Gray  has  caught  and  enshrined  forever  in  verse. 
The  thoughts  which  compose  the  Elegy  are  not  startling 
and  new ;  not  a  line  it  contains  but  has  been  traced  by 
learned  criticism  to  some  ancient  or  modern  source,  and 
scarcely  a  word  has  escaped  question  from  those  micro- 
scopic commentators  who  rejoice  to  pick  flaws  in  what- 
ever gem  of  art  or  literature  charms  the  world.  Gray's 
Elegy  may,  indeed,  absolutely  possess  no  higher  claim 
to  the  reputation  it  enjoys  than  that  of  being  an  ingenious 
piece  of  mosaic ;  but  wherever  the  materials  were  de- 
rived, the  effect  of  the  whole  is  too  excellent  to  permit  us 
to  quarrel  with  the  details.  The  very  cadence  of  the 
stanza  is  attuned  to  elegiac  music.  It  floats  solemnly 
along  like  the  moaning  of  the  breeze  in  spring,  amid  the 
cypresses  and  willows.  The  hues  of  the  picture  are  sub- 
dued to  the  "  sober  livery"  of  twilight.  Tender  senti- 
ments— a  regret  made  sublime  by  the  sense  of  beauty — a 
recognition  of  death  blended  with  a  vague  feeling  of  its 
mysterious  revelations — the  sweet  quietude  of  evening — 
sad  but  soothing  thoughts  of  14  passing  away" — the  mem- 
ory of  the  departed — all  throng  upon  us  in  every  verse 
of  the  Elegy,  and  associate  the  name  of  the  gentle  stu- 
dent of  Cambridge,  with  ideas  of  contemplative  delight. 


COLLINS. 


Enthusiastic  men  delight  to  place  themselves  in  direct 
relation  with  whatever  interests  their  minds.  The  merely 
curious  are  satisfied  to  observe,  to  acquaint  themselves 
with  the  remarkable  points  of  any  subject.  Such  is  the 
difference  between  knowledge  and  sympathy,  intellect 
and  feeling,  the  philosopher  and  the  poet.  The  former 
calmly  inquires,  and  when  the  truth  is  elicited  is  con- 
tent ;  the  latter  earnestly  contemplates,  till  the  sentiment 
of  his  theme  warms  and  overflows  his  heart.  The  anti- 
quarian is  delighted  when  a  half-legible  inscription  is 
plausibly  conjectured  or  the  age  of  an  architectural  frag- 
ment defined.  The  more  ardent  explorer  of  ruins,  finds 
enjoyment  in  summoning  back  the  men  and  events  that 
hallow  the  scene  ;  in  musing,  amid  broken  columns  and 
mossy  walls,  over  the  wonders  of  human  destiny  and 
the  poetry  of  time.  This  spontaneous  interest,  this  sym- 
pathetic attraction  is  one  of  the  characteristics  of  the  ge- 
nuine poet.  He  occupies  toward  congenial  subjects  of 
thought  the  relation  of  a  lover.  ■  He  kneels  to  win  the 
veneration  he  seeks,  he  pleads  for  response  to  his  impas- 
sioned regard,  he  boldly  addresses  the  creature  of  his 
fancy,  the  idea  of  his  mind,  the  object  of  his  thought, 
finding  relief  and  joy  in  the  eloquent  appeal.  What  we 
call  personification  is  the  natural  language  of  ideal  and 
sincere  minds.  It  is  a  language  which  it  is  difficult  to 
counterfeit.    No  resource  of  the  poet  and  orator  is  less 


COLLINS. 


65 


easy  to  feign.  We  are  either  borne  along"  or  repelled  by 
an  apostrophe.  When  a  speaker  or  a  bard  adopts  such 
language  merely  for  effect,  his  failure  is  decisive.  The 
imagery  and  tone  too  suddenly  fall  short  of  the  opening 
address.  When  Bryant,  for  instance,  begins  his  apos- 
trophe to  a  waterfowl,  we  feel  that  it  is  no  trick  of  art, 
but  a  genuine  poetic  impulse  that  prompts  his  muse.  She 
follows  the  lonely  bird  with  the  instinct  of  a  wondering 
interest,  through  the  grey  twilight,  till  the  "  abyss  of 
heaven  has  swallowed  up  its  form."  There  is  no  falter- 
ing or  artificial  effort,  all«is  sustained  and  free  as  that  so- 
litary flight  itself.  We  feel  that  the  eye  and  mind  of  the 
poet  were  actually  in  relation  with  the  form  he  invoked. 
Far  more  dangerous  is  the  attempt  to  apostrophize  any- 
thing abstract,  without  any  real  and  deep  interest  in  the 
subject.  The  very  adoption  of  this  form  of  verse  presup- 
poses that  the  poet's  soul  is  filled  and  kindled  by  his  sub- 
ject. He  manfully  and  earnestly  confronts  his  theme,  and 
if  he  does  not  succeed  in  placing  it  in  a  new  and  striking 
light,  or  throwing  around  it  a  warm  colouring  and  expres- 
sive interest,  he  convicts  himself  of  absurd  presumption. 
The  poet  of  true  feeling,  whose  inspiration  springs  from 
the  soul  rather  than  mere  art  or  taste,  will  naturally  often 
resort  to  personification  and  apostrophe.  Some  of  Byron's 
first  passages  are  of  this  description,  and  a  striking  proof 
of  his  genius  may  be  found  in  the  fact  that,  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, we  sympathize  at  once  with  these  flights.  They 
accord  with  the  state  of  feeling  the  poet  has  awakened. 
The  address  to  Parnassus,  to  Rome,  and  to  some  of  the 
celebrated  works  of  art,  find  an  echo  in  every  bosom 
where  meditative  sentiment  abides.  "  I  cannot  furbish," 
says  Byron.  "I  am  like  the  tiger,  if  I  miss  the  first 
spring,  I  go  growling  back  to  my  jungle." 

How  admirably  are  examples  of  this  kind  introduced 
in  Shakspere.    How  perfectly  are  we  prepared  for  the 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Moor's  apostrophe  to  Patience,  "  that  young  and  rose- 
lipped  cherubim,"  and  Macbelh's  address  to  the  airy  dag- 
ger. When  feeling  is  wrought  up  to  a  certain  point,  its 
language  is  poetic.  We  then  forget  the  conventional  and 
grapple  with  the  one  overmastering  idea.  Such  is  the 
case  in  actual  experience  ;  and  so  the  poet,  when  by  ear- 
nest contemplation  his  sympathies  are  all  enlisted  in  a 
subject,  turns  the  whole  force  of  his  mind  in  that  direc- 
tion, expands  his  nature  to  drink  in  its  suggestions  as  a 
flower  opens  to  the  sun  and  pours  forth  upon  it  the  con- 
centrated flow  of  thought,  as  a  pilgrim  at  his  long-sought 
shrine  or  a  lover  at  the  feet  of  his  mistress.  Of  the 
English  poets  whose  sensibility  and  ardour  of  thought 
have  led  them  successfully  to  personify  their  themes, 
William  Collins  takes  a  high  rank.  He  is  the  acknowl- 
edged author  of  one  of  the  few  immortal  odes  of  the 
language.  His  life  was  clouded  with  disappointment. 
He  failed  in  obtaining  a  fellowship,  after  a  promising 
college  career ;  and  this  circumstance,  together  with 
pecuniary  embarrassments,  led  him  to  quit  the  university 
for  London,  and  embark  in  the  precarious  pursuits  of  lit- 
erary adventure.  Irresolute  and  visionary,  he  projected 
grand  schemes  which  were  often  never  seriously  com- 
menced and  in  no  case  fully  realized.  Some  critics 
charge  the  failure  of  these  designs  wholly  to  the  poet's 
indolence,  without  considering  how  difficult  regular  men- 
tal occupation  must  be  to  a  sensitive  man  harassed  by 
poverty,  watched  by  bailiffs,  and  in  daily  anxiety  for  the 
means  of  subsistence.  His  eyes  were  so  weak  that 
blindness  was  apprehended.  It  was  his  misfortune  to 
love  in  vain,  and  when  affections  such  as  his  served  "  to 
water  but  the  desert,"  the  apathy  he  manifested  in  regard 
to  his  plans  of  research,  must  have  been  confirmed.  His 
odes  were  so  neglected  at  their  first  appearance,  that  with 
indignant  warmth  he  burned  the  balance  of  the  edition. 


I 


COLLINS. 


67 


He  was  early  separated  from  his  immediate  family,  and 
the  only  relative  with  whom  he  maintained  intercourse 
was  a  sister  who  possessed  not  a  single  trait  of  charac- 
ter in  common  with  him,  evinced  no  interest  in  his  pur- 
suits and  scorned  his  generous  impulses.  When  at  last 
fortune  smiled  upon  Collins,  and  the  bequest  of  an  uncle 
placed  him  above  want,  the  brilliant  faculties  which  had 
been  his  consolation  and  sustained  his  self-respect,  began 
to  fail.  Change  of  scene  produced  no  amendment,  and 
the  gifted  and  susceptible  bard  became  a  lunatic.  His 
malady  seems  to  have  alternated  for  several  years  be- 
tween violence  and  melancholy ;  sometimes  there  were 
lucid  intervals,  when  he  rallied  his  disordered  powers ;  at 
others  his  imbecility  or  insane  ravings  terrified  all  about  him. 

In  the  cathedral  of  Chichester  is  a  monument,  by 
Flaxman,  representing  the  unfortunate  poet  in  a  reclining 
posture,  the  New  Testament  open  before  him,  his  lyre 
and  one  of  his  compositions  neglected  at  his  feet,  his 
expression  calm  and  benevolent,  and  on  the  pediment  are 
carved  the  effigies  of  Love  and  Pity.  It  must  be  soothing 
to  gaze  upon  these  peaceful  emblems  and  remember  how 
often  the  adjacent  cloisters  have  echoed  with  the  frantic 
cries  of  one  who  is  now  slumbering  so  quietly.  From 
the  few  facts  recorded  of  Collins,  it  is  evident  that  he 
was  a  man  of  keen  sensibility  and  a  glowing  mind.  He 
seems  to  have  charmed  all  who  knew  him,  and  most  of 
his  intimates  were  men  distinguished  for  talent.  His 
sympathies  were  broad  and  earnest,  such  as  win  love 
and  inspire  confidence.  He  was  the  endeared  compan- 
ion of  Thomson  and  Garrick,  Dr.  Armstrong  and  Hill. 
Even  Johnson,  little  as  he  appreciated  his  verses,  evi- 
dently felt  the  graces  of  his  character.  Indeed,  in  some 
of  the  letters  of  the  moralist,  there  are  expressions  of 
tender  concern  in  behalf  of  Collins  which  indicate  the 
rare  estimation  in  which  he  was  held.    The  social  spirit 


63 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


of  the  poet,  his  warm  friendship,  his  passion  for  Shaks- 
pere  and  music,  are  so  many  evidences  of  his  sanguine 
temper  and  native  sentiment.  His  soul  was  like  a  finely 
strung  harp,  too  rudely  exposed  long  to  retain  its  har- 
monious tone.  Yet  every  breeze  that  swept  its  strings 
drew  forth  melody  ;  and  ere  it  was  jarred  into  discord  a 
few  strains  were  happily  elicited,  which  still  abide  to 
cheer  our  hearts,  and  with  their  pensive  music  vindicate 
the  rare  worth  of  the  departed. 

The  poetic  fire  of  Collins  was  concentrated  in  its  de- 
velopment. He  attempted  no  extensive  range.  He  went 
not  forth  to  chronicle  the  details  of  nature.  We  find  no 
elaborate  pictures,  no  subtle  and  refined  comments  on  ex- 
ternal things  or  human  life,  but  an  intense  revelation,  a 
concise  view,  a  bright  glimpse  caught  from  the  fervour 
of  the  poet's  thought.  His  eclogues  and  heroic  poems 
may  be  considered  as  the  early  experiments  rather  than 
the  legitimate  fruits  of  his  genius.  They  show  command 
of  language  and  taste  but  no  strong  individual  traits.  In 
the  odes,  although  they  are  unequal  in  felicious  expres- 
sion, the  peculiar  force  of  Collins  appears.  By  a  single 
epithet,  a  graphic  apostrophe,  an  image  freshly  springing 
from  his  ardent  mind,  we  often  receive  an  impression 
more  vivid  and  pleasing  than  other  bards  convey  by  a 
succession  of  laboured  metaphors  and  rhymes.  The  de- 
scription of  danger  is  well  known  as  an  instance,  in  point : 

Danger  whose  limbs  of  giant  mould 

What  mortal  eye  can  fixed  behold  ? 

Who  stalks  his  round,  a  hideous  form 

Howling  amidst  the  midnight  storm  ; 

Or  throws  him  on  the  ridgy  steep. 

Of  some  loose,  hanging  rock  to  sleep. 

He  tells  us  that  simplicity  is 

 by  Nature  taught 

To  breathe  her  genuine  thought, 

In  numbers  warmly  pure  and  sweetly  strong. 


COLLINS. 


69 


Here  we  have  a  perfect  definition  in  common  but  adequate 
words.  And  the  idea  is  carried  out  most  pleasingly  by 
such  phrases  as  "  hermit  heart,"  "  decent  maiden  "  and 
"  sister  meek  of  truth."  This  delicate  propriety  of  lan- 
guage is  characteristic  of  Collins,  and  enables  him  to  ven- 
ture upon  figures  which  a  less  chaste  poet  would  urge  into 
extravagance.  How  the  imagination  is  filled  and  charm- 
ed by  two  images  of  one  of  his  most  famous  odes  : 

When  spring  with  dewy  fingers  cold 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould. 
*  *  *  * 

There  Honour  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay. 

Who  has  not  envied  the  sleep  of  the  brave  thus  guarded 
and  graced  ?  Who  has  not  been  thrilled  at  the  idea  of 
beautiful  spring  "  with  dewy  fingers  cold"  lingering  over 
the  hero's  grave,  and  seen  in  fancy  the  august  image  of 
that  gray  pilgrim  invoking  a  benediction  upon  the  conse- 
crated spot  ?  In  the  twelve  line?  of  this  ode  there  is  a 
world  of  meaning.  The  fancy  and  the  heart  are  deeply 
impressed,  and  yet  how  simple  the  diction  and  unpre- 
tending the  design.  Mercy  is  characterized  with  the 
same  felicity  of  metaphor  and  epithet : 

Oh  thou,  who  sitt'st  a  smiling  bride, 
By  Valour's  arm'd  and  awful  side, 
Gentlest  of  sky-born  forms  and  best  adored. 

Subsequently  she  is  represented  as  looking  away  rage, 
the  most  touching  manner  in  which  we  can  imagine  her 
power  to  be  exerted.  A  constant  tendency  to  personify 
appears  throughout  the  poetry  of  Collins.  In  his  ode  on 
the  death  of  Colonel  Ross,  we  have  again  the  image  of 
Honour  slightly  varied : 

Blest  youth,  regardful  of  thy  doom, 
iErial  hands  shall  build  thy  tomb, 
With  shadowy  trophies  crown'd  ; 


70 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE  POETS. 


Whil'st  Honour  bathed  in  tears  shall  rove 
To  sigh  thy  name  through  every  grove, 
And  call  his  heroes  round. 

What  bold  images  follow  : 

The  warlike  dead  of  every  age, 
Who  fill  the  fair  recording  page, 

Shall  leave  their  sainted  rest ; 
And  half-reclining  on  his  spear, 
Each  wandering  chief  by  turns  appear 

To  hail  the  blooming  guest. 

But  lo,  where  sunk  in  deep  despair, 
Her  garments  torn,  her  bosom  bare, 

Impatient  Freedom  lies ! 
Her  matted  tresses  madly  spread, 
To  every  sod  which  wraps  the  dead, 

She  turns  her  joyless  eyes. 

This  spirited  ode  was  written  to  commemorate  the 
death  of  the  poet's  rival,  who  was  affianced  to  the  lady 
of  his  heart  at  the  time  of  his  decease.  One  of  the  few 
jokes  related  of  Collins  has  reference  to  his  unfortunate 
love.  He  was  born  within  a  few  hours  of  his  unkind 
mistress,  and  used  to  remark  facetiously  that  he  came  into 
the  world  "  the  day  after  the  fair."  Few  poets  more 
successfully  give  us  the  sensation  of  a  scene  or  an  event 
than  Collins.  In  his  ode  to  Evening,  he  speaks  of  the 
beetle's  "  small  but  sullen  horn,"  the  "heedless  hum," 
the  "  folding-star,"  and  "  the  pensive  pleasures"  that 
"  prepare  the  shadowy  car,"  "  hamlets  brown,"  "  dim- 
discovered  spies  "  and  "  the  gradual  dusky  veil — "  ex- 
pressions which  make  us  almost  sensibly  feel  the  coming 
on  of  the  twilight.  It  is  a  fine  idea  that  Peace  should  be 
invoked,  as  in  the  following  stanza,  to  unite  herself  with 
the  only  principle  that  makes  her  existence  consistent 
with  national  dignity  : 

Let  others  court  thy  transient  smile, 
But  come  to  grace  thy  western  isle, 


COLLINS. 


71 


By  warlike  honour  led  ; 
And,  while  around  her  ports  rejoice, 
While  all  her  sons  adore  thy* choice, 

With  him  forever  wed  ! 

The  faith  Collins  placed  in  native  inspiration  as  the 
source  of  poetry  rather  than  art  or  study,  is  suggested  by 
this  invocation : 

O  Nature  !  boon  from  whence  proceed, 

Each  forceful  thought,  each  prompted  deed  ; 

If  but  from  thee  I  hope  to  feel 

On  all  my  heart  imprint  thy  seal ! 

Let  some  retreating  cynic  find 

Those  oft-turned  scrolls  I  leave  behind  ; 

The  sports  and  I  this  hour  agree 

To  roam  thy  scene-ful  world  with  thee. 

In  the  attempt  to  appreciate  the  elements  of  genius,  we 
should  select  the  most  complete  specimen.  Expression 
is  at  all  times  a  difficult  process  and  the  most  fluent  poet 
often  fails  to  give  utterance  to  what  is  glowing  in  his 
mind.  The  fairest  example  of  the  poetry  of  Collins  is 
his  celebrated  Ode  on  the  Passions.  Observation  alone 
could  not  have  gifted  him  so  to  describe  as  in  this  master- 
piece of  verse.  The  heart  that  prompted  this  picture 
must  have  known,  in  its  own  delicate  and  earnest  work- 
ings, the  mysterious  fluctuation  so  vividly  sketched. 
Rare  sympathy  with  human  nature  revealed  these 
striking  touches.  Briefly  as  each  passion  is  depicted, 
the  key-note  is  struck  which  at  once  suggests  what  is 
left  unsaid.  How  impressively  the  metrical  harmony 
accords  with  the  feelings  portrayed.  It  was  unnecessary 
to  adapt  this  ode  to  music  ;  the  very  numbers  are  melo- 
diously expressive.  What  speaking  figures  of  speech 
are  those  which  make  Fear  strike  the  lyre  with  "  one 
rude  crash,"  and  then  recoil  at  a  sound  of  its  own  crea- 
tion ;  Despair  call  forth  a  strain  alternately  sad  and  wild ; 


72 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Hope  appear  with  "  eyes  so  fair,"  and  awaken  echo  so 
typical  of  her  own  illusions  ;  Jealousy,  with  no  fixed 
cadence,  restless  and  variable  as  its  own  perplexed  mood  ; 
melancholy's  notes  "  by  distance  made  more  sweet  "  and 
dying  away  "  in  hollow  murmurs ;"  Cheerfulness  with 
"  buskin  gemmed  with  morning  dew "  beguiling  forth 
"  brown  exercise "  and  "  sylvan  boys  peeping  from 
their  alleys  green "  and  Mirth  shaking  "  a  thousand 
odours  from  her  dewy  wings  !"  In  this  one  production 
how  much  of  the  essence  of  true  poetry  is  concentrated. 
How  it  sets  at  nought  the  superficial  criticism  of  Dr. 
Johnson.  How  eloquently  does  it  suggest  the  depth  of 
feeling,  the  susceptibility  and  the  beautiful  insight  which 
distinguished  the  genius  of  Collins.  If  this  gem  wras  not 
originally  recognised  at  its  true  value,  later  times  have 
made  amends  for  previous  neglect.  An  adept  in  the  art 
of  elocution  can  give  a  pathos,  and  vividness  to  this  ode  of 
which  few  English  poems  are  capable.  Its  variety  is 
admirable,  its  imagery  bold  and  glowing,  and  the  whole 
conception  warm  with  the  imaginative  beauty  of  a  poet's 
mind.  It  has  made  dear  the  name  of  Collins,  and  hallow- 
ed the  memory  of  his  sufferings,  by  associating  them  with 
the  sacred  legacy  of  genius. 


POPE. 


That  system  of  compensation  which  is  thought  by  many 
to  balance  the  apparent  inequalities  of  human  destiny,  is 
strikingly  illustrated  in  the  case  of  Alexander  Pope. 
Born  in  obscurity,  he  achieved  a  great  reputation,  ex- 
tremely feeble  in  frame,  his  mind  was  singularly  ener- 
getic, cut  off  by  deformity  from  many  accomplishments, 
he  gave  to  his  intellectual  efforts  an  unrivalled  elegance. 
Who  would  have  imagined,  in  contemplating  the  delicate 
and  misshapen  child,  that  life,  by  any  possibility,  could 
prove  any  thing  to  him  but  a  weary  experience,  whose 
monotony  would  be  totally  unrelieved  ?  Yet  glance  at 
the  adventures  of  his  poetical  career,  and  in  number  and 
variety  they  will  be  found  equal  to  those  of  many  a  hale 
knight  or  wild  votary  of  fashion.  At  what  a  tender  age 
he  renounced  the  dictation  of  masters,  assumed  the  reins 
of  education,  and  resolutely  launched  into  the  profession 
of  a  poet !  How  soon  he  was  engaged  in  a  quarrel  with 
Ambrose  Phillips,  and  what  a  long  satirical  contest  fen- 
sued  with  Dennis  and  Cibber  !  Then  followed  his  inti- 
macy with  Lady  Montague ;  their  fierce  encounters  of 
wit ;  their  friendship,  correspondence,  and  mutual  enmi- 
ty. These  and  similar  scenes  of  literary  animosity,  were 
brightened  by  friendly  intercourse  with  Gay,  Swift,  and 
Bolingbroke,  and  relieved  by  long  periods  of  study  and 
composition,  visits  to  noblemen,  short  journeys,  and  do- 
mestic duties  And  thus  the  weak  and  diminutive  poet 
5 


74 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


managed  to  rise  above  the  dull  existence  his  organization 
seemed  to  ensure,  and  to  find  abundance  of  interest  in 
the  excitement  of  critical  warfare  and  the  pursuit  of  poeti- 
cal renown.  It  is  a  wonderful  evidence  of  the  power  of 
mind,  that  this  blighted  germ  of  humanity — who  was 
braced  in  canvass  in  order  to  hold  himself  upright — put 
to  bed  and  undressed  all  his  life  like  a  child — often  una- 
ble to  digest  the  luxuries  he  could  not  deny  himself,  or  to 
keep  his  eyes  open  at  the  honourable  tables  to  which  his 
talents  alone  gave  him  access — should  yet  be  the  terror  of 
his  foes,  the  envy  of  his  rivals,  and  the  admiration  of  his 
friends.  He  could  not  manage  the  sword  he  so  ostenta- 
tiously displayed  in  society,  but  he  wielded  a  pen  whose 
caustic  satire  was  amply  adequate  to  minister  either  to  his 
self-defence  or  revenge.  He  was  '  sent  into  this  breath- 
ing world  but  half  made  up,'  and  calls  his  existence  '  a 
long  disease ;'  but  nature  atoned  for  the  unkindness,  by 
endowing  him  with  a  judgment  marvellous  for  its  refined 
correctness.  He  could  not  enjoy  with  his  neighbours  the 
healthful  exercises  of  the  chase  ;  but  while  they  were 
pursuing  a  poor  hare,  with  whose  death  ended  the  sport, 
his  mind  was  borne  along  in  a  race  of  rhyme  destined  to 
carry  his  name  with  honour  to  posterity.  He  never 
laughed  heartily ;  but  while  weaving  his  heroics,  forgot 
pain,  weariness  and  the  world.  In  the  street,  he  was  an 
object  of  pity — at  his  desk,  a  king.  His  head  was  early 
deprived  of  hair,  and  ached  severely  almost  everyday  of 
his  life  ;  but  his  eyes  were  singularly  expressive,  and  his 
voice  uncommonly  melodious.  In  youth  he  suffered  the 
decrepitude  of  age,  but  at  the  same  time  gave  evidence 
of  mental  precocity  and  superior  sense.  He  was  un- 
equal to  a  personal  rencontre  with  those  who  ridiculed 
his  works  ;  but  he  has  bestowed  upon  them  an  immortal 
vengeance  in  the  Dunciad.  His  unfortunate  person  shut 
him  out  from  the  triumphs  of  gallantry,  but  his  talents 


POPE. 


75 


and  reputation  long  secured  him  the  society  and  professed 
friendship  of  the  most  brilliant  woman  of  the  day  ;  and 
obtained  for  him,  during  most  of  his  life,  the  faithful 
care  and  companionship  of  Martha  Blount.  He  never 
knew  the  buoyancy  of  spirit  which  good  health  induces, 
but  was  very  familiar  with  that  keen  delight  that  springs 
from  successful  mental  enterprise.  He  could  not  com- 
mand the  consideration  attached  to  noble  birth ;  but,  on 
the  strength  of  his  intellectual  endowments,  he  was  al- 
ways privileged  to  tax  the  patience  of  his  titled  acquaint- 
ance for  his  own  convenience  and  pleasure. 

Men  of  letters  have  been  called  a  race  of  creatures  of 
a  nature  between  the  two  sexes.  Pope  is  a  remarkable 
exemplification  of  the  idea.  There  is  a  tone  of  decided 
manliness  in  the  strong  sense  which  characterizes  his 
productions,  and  a  truly  masculine  vigour  in  the  patient 
application  with  which  he  opposed  physical  debility.  His 
disposition  on  the  other  hand  was  morbidly  vain.  He 
was  weak  enough  to  indulge  an  ambition  for  distinguish- 
ed acquaintance,  and  a  most  effeminate  caprice  swayed  his 
attachments  and  enmities.  Another  prominent  trait  in- 
creased his  resemblance  to  the  female  sex.  I  allude  to 
a  quality  which  the  phrenologists  call  secretiveness.  In 
its  healthy  exercise  its  operation  is  invaluable.  To  its 
influence  is  ascribed  much  of  that  address  and  tact,  in 
which  women  are  so  superior  to  men.  The  latter,  in  or- 
dinary affairs,  generally  adopt  a  very  direct  course.  They 
confide  in  strength  rather  than  policy.  They  overlook 
lesser  means  in  the  contemplation  of  larger  ends.  This, 
indeed,  is  partly  owing  to  their  position.  Nature  always 
gives  additional  resources  where  the  relation  is  that  of 
the  pursued  rather  than  the  pursuer.  Hence,  the  insight 
into  character,  the  talent  for  observation,  the  f>kill  in  trac- 
ing motives  and  anticipating  results,  which  belong  to  wo- 
men.   It  is  the  abuse,  however,  of  this  trait  that  is  obvi- 


76 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


ous  in  Pope.  There  seems  little  question  that  he  was  an 
artful  man.  He  made  use  of  the  most  unnecessary  strata- 
gems to  compass  a  simple  favour.  His  cunning,  indeed, 
was  chiefly  directed  to  the  acquisition  of  fame  ;  but  no- 
thing subtracts  more  from  our  sense  oT  reputation,  than 
a  conviction  that  it  is  an  exclusive  end  to  its  possessor. 
Truly  great  men  never  trouble  themselves  about  their 
fame.  They  press  bravely  on  in  the  path  of  honour  and 
leave  their  renown  to  take  care  of  itself.  It  succeeds  as 
certainly  as  any  law  of  nature.  All  elevated  spirits  h  ve 
a  calm  confidence  in  this  truth.  Washington  felt  it  n 
the  darkest  hour  of  the  revolution,  and  Shakspere  un- 
consciously realized  it,  when  he  concluded  his  last  play, 
and  went  quietly  down  to  finish  his  days  in  the  country. 

Pope  was  a  gifted  mortal,  but  he  was  not  of  this  calibre. 
He  thought  a  great  deal  about  his  reputation.  He  was 
not  satisfied  merely  to  labour  for  it,  and  leave  the  result 
He  disputed  its  possession  inch  by  inch  with  the  critics, 
and  resorted  to  a  thousand  petty  tricks  to  secure  its  en- 
joyment. The  management  he  displayed  in  order  to  pub- 
lish his  letters,  is  an  instance  in  point.  No  one  can  read 
them  without  feeling  they  were  written  for  more  eyes 
than  those  of  his  correspondents.  There  is  a  laboured 
smartness,  a  constant  exhibition  of  fine  sentiment,  which 
is  strained  and  unnatural.  His  repeated  deprecation  of 
motives  of  aggrandizement,  argues,  '  a  thinking  too  pre- 
cisely' on  the  very  subject ;  and  no  man,  whose  chief  am- 
bition was  to  gain  a  few  dear  friends,  would  so  habitually 
proclaim  it.  These  tender  and  delicate  aspirations  live 
in  the  secret  places  of  the  heart.  They  are  breathed  in 
lonely  prayers,  and  uttered  chiefly  in  quiet  sighs.  Scarcely 
do  they  obtain  natural  expression  amid  the  details  of  a 
literary  correspondence.  True  sentiment  is  modest.  It 
may  tinge  the  conversation  and  give  a  feeling  tone  to  the 
epistle,  but  it  makes  not  a  confessional  of  every  sentry- 


POPE. 


77 


box,  or  gallery.  The  letters  of  Pope  leave  upon  the 
mind  an  impression  of  affectation.  Doubtless  they  con- 
tain much  that  is  sincere  in  sentiment  and  candid  in  opi- 
nion, but  the  general  effect  lacks  the  freedom  and  hearti- 
ness of  genuine  letter-writing.  Many  of  the  bard's 
foibles  should  be  ascribed  to  his  bodily  ailments,  and  the 
indulgence  which  he  always  commanded.  Nor  should 
we  forget  that  he  proved  himself  above  literary  servility — 
and  was,  in  many  instances,  a  most  faithful  friend,  and 
always  an  exemplary  son.  Pope  was  the  poet  of  wit 
and  fancy,  rather  than  of  enthusiasm  and  imagination. 
His  invention  is  often  brilliant,  but  never  grand.  He 
rarely  excites  any  sentiment  of  sublimity,  but  often  one  of 
pleasure.  There  is  little  in  his  poetry  that  seems  the  off- 
spring of  emotion.  He  never  appears  to  have  written 
from  overpowering  impulse.  His  finest  verses  have  an 
air  of  premeditation.  We  are  not  swept  away  by  a  torrent 
of  individual  passion  as  in  Byron,  nor  melted  by  a  natu- 
ral sentiment  as  in  Burns,  nor  exalted  by  a  grandeur  of 
imagery  as  in  Milton.  We  read  Pope  with  a  regular 
pulse.  He  often  provokes  a  smile,  but  never  calls  forth  a 
tear.  His  rationality  appproves  itself  to  our  understand- 
ing, his  fancifulness  excites  our  applause  ;  but  the  cita- 
del of  the  soul  is  uninvaded,  We  perceive,  unawares  per- 
haps, that  books  have  quickened  the  bard's  conception  far 
more  than  experience.  It  may  be  fairly  doubted  whether 
Pope  possessed,  in  any  great  degree,  the  true  political  sen- 
sibility to  Nature.  He  thought  more  of  his  own  domains 
than  becomes  a  true  son  o  the  muse,  and  had  a  most 
unpoetical  regard  for  money,  as  well  as  contempt  for  pov- 
erty. His  favourite  objects  of  contemplation  were  Alex- 
ander Pope  and  Twickenham.  We  cannot  wonder  that 
he  failed  as  an  editor  of  Shakspere.  Few  objects  or 
scenes  of  the  outward  world  awoke  feelings  in  his  bosom 
"  too  deep  for  tears."  He  never  claimed  such  fellowship 
5* 


78 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


with  the  elements  as  to  fancy  himself  '  a  portion  of  the 
tempest.'  It  is  true  he  describes  well;  but  where  the 
materials  of  his  pictures  are  not  borrowed,  they  resemble 
authentic  nomenclatures  more  than  genial  sketches.  He 
does  not  personify  nature  with  the  ardour  of  a  votary.  He 
never  follows  with  a  lover's  perception  the  phases  of  a 
natural  phenomenon.  The  evening  wind  might  have 
cooled  his  brow  forever,  ere  he  would  have  been  prompted 
to  trace  its  course  with  the  grateful  fondness  of  Bryant. 
He  might  have  lived  upon  the  sea-coast,  and  never  revell- 
ed in  its  grandeur  as  did  the  Peer,  and  passed  a  daisy 
every  day,  nor  felt  the  meek  appeal  of  its  lowly  beauty,  as 
did  the  Ploughman.  Even  in  his  letters,  Pope  depicts 
scenery  with  a  very  cool  admiration  ;  and  never  seems 
to  associate  it  with  any  sentiment  of  moral  interest. 
Where  any  thing  of  this  appears,  it  is  borrowed.  The 
taste  of  Pope  was  evidently  artificial  to  the  last  degree. 
He  delighted  in  a  grotto  decked  out  with  looking-glass  and 
coloured  stones,  as  much  as  Wordsworth  in  a  mountain- 
path,  or  Scott  in  a  border  antiquity.  The  Rape  of  the 
Lock  is  considered  his  most  characteristic  production,  and 
abounds  with  brilliant  fancy  and  striking  invention. 
But  to  what  is  it  devoted  ?  The  celebration  of  a  trivial 
incident  in  fashionable  life.  Its  inspiration  is  not  of  the 
grove,  but  the  boudoir.  It  is  not  bright  with  the  radiance 
of  truth,  but  with  the  polish  of  art.  It  breathes  not  the 
fragrance  of  wild -flowers,  but  the  fumes  of  tea.  It  dis- 
plays not  the  simple  features  of  nature,  but  the  parapher- 
nalia of  the  toilet.  We  know  what  the  heroine  wears  and 
what  she  does,  but  must  conjecture  her  peculiar  senti- 
ments, and  make  out  of  the  details  of  her  dress  and  cir- 
cumstances, an  idea  of  her  character. 

On  her  white  breast,  a  sparkling  cross  she  wore, 
Which  Jews  might  kiss  and  infidels  adore. 


POPE. 


79 


Faultless  lines  indeed,  and  they  ring  most  harmonious- 
ly ;  but  the  poet  of  feeling  would  have  thrilled  us  with 
his  description  of  Belinda's  charms,  and  the  poet  of  ima- 
gination would  have  carried  us  beneath  both  the  cross  and 
the  bosom  it  adorned,  to  the  young  heart  of  the  maiden, 
and  made  us  '  leap  on  its  pants  triumphant.'  Yet  this 
poem  is  an  extraordinary  proof  of  Pope's  fancy.  He  has 
invented  a  long  story  out  of  a  single  and  not  very  inter- 
esting fact ;  and  he  has  told  this  tale  in  a  language  the  most 
choice,  and  rhymes  the  most  correct.  The  poem  is  like 
the  fruits  and  flowers  of  precious  stones  set  in  the  exqui- 
site pietra  dura  tables  of  Italy, — clear,  fanciful,  rarely 
combined,  but  unwarmed  with  any  glow  of  nature ;  and 
better  calculated  to  awaken  admiration  than  excite  sym- 
pathy. 

It  is  usual  to  speak  of  Pope  as  a  poet  of  the  past — 
one  whose  peculiarities  have  given  place  to  a  new  order 
of  things.  But  we  have  ever  representatives  of  his  school, 
both  in  literature  and  life.  Men  who  have  cultivated  their 
manners  to  an  elegant  degree  of  plausibility,  orators  who 
have  become  masters  of  an  engaging  elocution,  the 
grace  of  which  wins  us  from  criticism  and  reflection, 
poets  who  have  perfectly  learned  how  to  versify,  and  have 
more  sense  than  sensibility,  more  wit  than  enthusiasm, 
more  fancy  than  imaginative  power  ; — such  are  legitimate 
disciples  of  Pope.  They  are  useful,  attractive,  often  de- 
lightful beings,  and  effect  much  in  their  way  ;  but  humani- 
ty can  be  '  touched  to  finer  issues'  than  these  convention- 
al though  brilliant  accomplishments.  The  truthful  as- 
pirant, the  mind  elevated  by  great  views  and  aims,  the 
spontaneous  and  overflowing  soul — such  spirits  as  Milton, 
Burns,  Coleridge,  and  Lamb,  awaken  a  profounder  regard. 
The  Essay  on  Man  contains  many  truisms,  a  long  array 
of  common-place  facts,  and  a  few  interesting  truths.  The 
theory  it  unfolds  whether  the  poet's  or  borrowed,  affords 


80 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


little  consolation  to  an  ardent  and  sensitive  mind.  Pope 
cherished  no  very  tender  or  comprehensive  views  of  his 
race.  His  observation  enabled  him  only  to  1  catch  the 
manners  living  as  they  rise  ;'  and  accordingly  many  of 
his  couplets  have  passed  into  proverbs.    He  inquires 

■  of  God  above,  or  man  below, 
What  can  we  reason,  but  from  what  we  know  ?' 

A  curious  query  for  a  poet  whose  distinction  it  is  to  en- 
joy the  insight  of  a  generous  imagination,  and  whose 
keen  sympathies  take  him  constantly  from  the  narrow 
limits  of  the  actual,  soften  the  angles  of  mere  logical  per- 
ception, and  'round  them  with  a  sleep' — the  sweet  and 
dreamy  repose  of  poetical  reverie.    Pope  sings  not  of 

Hopes  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 

An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherished  long. 

The  Epistle  to  Abelard  breathes,  indeed,  the  tremulous 
faith  of  love,  and  paints,  not  unefTectively,  the  struggle  of 
that  passion  in  a  vestal's  heart,  but  the  bard  himself  re- 
fers us  to  the  original  letter  for  the  sentiment  of  the 
poem.  Even  the  pious  invocation  of  '  The  Dying  Chris- 
tian to  his  Soul,'  was  written  with  a  view  to  other  effu- 
sions of  a  similar  nature.  The  Translations  and  Imita- 
tions of  Pope,  greatly  outweigh  his  original  pieces — a 
sufficient  proof  that  poetry  was  to  him  more  of  an  art 
than  an  impulse.  The  Iliad,  however  little  it  may  credit 
his  scholarship  and  fidelity  to  the  original,  is  truly  an 
extraordinary  evidence  of  his  facility  in  versifying,  and 
of  his  patient  industry.  Pope's  ideal  lay  almost  wholly 
in  language.    He  thought  that 

'  True  expression  like  the  unchanging  sun, 
Clears  and  improves  whate'er  it  shines  upon, 
It  gilds  all  objects,  but  it  alters  none.' 


POPE. 


81 


To  him  we  are  mainly  indebted  for  a  new  revelation 
of  the  capabilities  of  English  heroic  verse.  He  gave  the 
most  striking  examples  of  his  favourite  theory,  that 
1  sound  should  seem  an  echo  to  the  sense.'  He  carried 
out  the  improvement  in  diction  which  Dryden  com- 
menced ;  and  while  Addison  was  producing  beautiful  spe- 
cimens of  reformed  prose,  Pope  gave  a  polish  and  point 
to  verse  before  unknown.  When  the  vast  number  of  his 
couplets  are  considered,  their  fastidious  correctness  is 
truly  astonishing.  How  many  examples  occur  to  the 
memory  of  his  correct  and  musical  rhymes,  ringing  like 
the  clear  chimes  of  a  favourite  bell  through  a  frosty  at- 
mosphere !  How  often  do  we  forget  the  poverty  of  the 
thought — the  familiarity  of  the  image — the  triteness  *of 
the  truths  they  convey,  in  the  fascinating  precision  of  the 
verse !  It  becomes,  indeed,  wearisome  at  length  from 
sameness ;  and  to  be  truly  enjoyed  must  be  only  resorted 
to  occasionally.  The  poetical  diction  of  Pope  resembles 
mosaic-work.  His  words,  like  the  materials  of  that  art, 
are  fitted  together  with  a  marvellous  nicety.  The  pic- 
tures formed  are  vivid,  exact,  and  skilful.  The  consum- 
mate tact  thus  displayed  charms  the  fancy,  and  suggests 
a  degree  of  patient  and  tasteful  labour  which  excites  ad- 
miration. The  best  mosaic  paintings  have  a  fresh  viva- 
city of  hue,  and  a  distinctness  of  outline,  which  gratifies 
the  eye ;  but  we  yield  a  higher  tribute  to  the  less  formal 
and  more  spiritual  products  of  the  pencil.  And  such  is 
the  distinction  between  Pope  and  more  imaginative  poets. 
The  bright  enamel  of  his  rhymes,  is  like  a  frozen  lake 
over  which  we  glide,  as  a  skater  before  the  wind,  sur- 
rounded by  a  glittering  landscape  of  snow.  There  is  a 
pleasing  exhilaration  in  our  course,  but  little  glow  of 
heart  or  exultation  of  soul.  The  poetry  of  a  deeper  and 
less  artificial  school  is  like  that  lake  on  a  summer  eve- 
ning, upon  whose  tide  we  float  in  a  pleasure-boat,  look- 


82 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


ing-  apon  the  flowering  banks,  the  warm  sunset,  and 
the  coming  forth  of  the  stars.  To  appreciate  justly  the 
perfection  to  which  Pope  carried  the  heroic  verse,  it  is 
only  necessary  to  consider  how  few  subsequent  rhymers 
have  equalled  him.  He  created  a  standard  in  this  de- 
partment which  is  not  likely  soon  to  be  superseded. 
Other  and  less  studied  metres  have  since  come  into 
vogue,  but  this  still  occupies  and  must  retain  an  impor- 
tant place.  It  is  doubtless  the  best  for  an  occasional 
poem  intended  for  oral  delivery.  Few  can  manage  the 
Spenserian  stanza  with  effect,  and  blank  verse  often  wea- 
ries an  audience.  There  is  a  directness  in  the  heroic 
metre  admirably  adapted  for  immediate  impression.  The 
thought  is  converged  to  bright  sallies  within  its  brief  lim- 
its, and  the  quickly  succeeding  rhymes  sweeten  the  sen- 
timent to  the  ear.  Finely  chosen  words  are  very  effec- 
tive in  the  heroic  measure,  and  images  have  a  striking 
relievo.  For  bold  appeal,  and  keen  satire,  this  medium 
is  unsurpassed  ;  and  it  is  equally  susceptible  of  touching 
melody.  Witness  Byron's  description  of  the  dead  Me- 
dora,  and  Campbell's  protest  against  scepticism.  Rogers 
and  our  own  Sprague  have  won  their  fairest  laurels  in 
heroic  verse.  With  this  school  of  poetry,  Pope  is  wholly 
identified.  He  most  signally  exhibited  its  resources,  and 
to  him  is  justly  ascribable  the  honour  of  having  made  it 
the  occasion  of  refining  the  English  language.  He  illus- 
trates the  power  of  correctness — the  effect  of  precision. 
His  example  has  done  much  to  put  to  shame  careless 
habits  of  expression.  He  was  a  metrical  essayist  of  ex- 
cellent sense,  rare  fancy,  and  bright  wit.  He  is  the 
apostle  of  legitimate  rhyme,  and  one  of  the  true  masters 
of  the  art  of  verse. 


CO WPEfi. 


In  the  gallery  of  the  English  poets,  we  linger  with 
peculiar  emotion  before  the  portrait  of  Covvper.  We 
think  of  him  as  a  youth,  1  giggling  and  making  giggle  '  at 
his  uncle's  house  in  London,  and  indulging  an  attach- 
ment destined  to  be  sadly  disappointed ;  made  wretched 
by  the  idea  of  a  peculiar  destiny ;  transferred  from  a  cir- 
cle of  literary  roysterers  to  the  gloomy  precincts  of  an 
Insane  Asylum ;  partially  restored,  yet  shrinking  from 
the  responsibilities  incident  to  his  age  ;  restless,  undeci- 
ded, desponding  even  to  suicidal  wretchedness,  and 
finally  abandoning  a  world  for  the  excitement  and  strug- 
gles of  which  he  was  wholly  unfit.  We  follow  him  into 
the  bosom  of  a  devoted  family  ;  witness  with  admiration 
the  facility  he  exhibits  in  deriving  amusements  from 
trifling  employments — gathering  every  way-side  flower 
even  in  the  valley  of  despair,  finding  no  comfort  but  in 
1  self-deception,'  and  finding  this  in  '  self-discipline.'  We 
behold  his  singular  re-appearance  in  the  world  in  the  ca- 
pacity of  an  author, — genius  reviving  the  ties  that  mis- 
fortune had  broken.  We  trace  with  delight  his  intellec- 
tual career  in  his  charming  correspondence  with  Hayley, 
Hill,  and  his  cousin,  the  vividness  of  his  affections  in  his 
poem  to  his  mother's  picture,  the  play  of  his  fancy  in 
John  Gilpin,  his  reflective  ingenuity  in  the  Task.  We 
recall  the  closing  scene — the  failing  faculties  of  his  faith- 


84 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


ful  companion/*  his  removal  from  endeared  scenes,  his 
sad  walks  hy  the  sea-shore,  his  patient,  but  profound 
melancholy  and  peaceful  death — with  the  solemn  relief 
that  ensues  from  the  termination  of  a  tragedy.  And 
when  we  are  told  that  an  expression  of  "  holy  surprise" 
settled  on  the  face  of  the  departed,  we  are  tempted  to  ex- 
claim with  honest  Kent — 

0,  let  him  pass  !  he  hates  him 

That  would  upon  the  rack  of  this  rude  world, 

Stretch  him  out  longer. 

At  an  age  when  most  of  his  countrymen  are  confirmed 
in  prosaic  habits,  William  Cowper  sat  down  to  versify. 
No  darling  theory  of  the  art,  no  restless  thirst  for  fame, 
no  bardic  frenzy  prompted  his  devotion.  He  sought  in 
poetic  labour  oblivion  of  consciousness.  He  strove  to 
make  a  Lethe  of  the  waters  of  Helicon.  The  gift  of  a 
beautiful  mind  was  marred  by  an  unhappy  temperament ; 
the  chords  of  a  tender  heart  proved  too  delicate  for  the 
winds  of  life ;  and  the  unfortunate  youth  became  an  in- 
tellectual hypochondriac.  In  early  manhood,  when  the 
first  cloud  of  insanity  had  dispersed,  he  took,  as  it  were, 
monastic  vows — and  turned  aside  from  the  busy  metrop- 
olis, where  his  career  began,  to  seek  the  solace  of  rural 
retirement.  There,  the  tasteful  care  of  a  conservatory, 
the  exercise  of  mechanical  ingenuity,  repose,  seclusion 
and  kindness,  gradually  restored  his  spirit  to  calmness; 
and  then  the  intellect  demanded  exercise,  and  this  it 
found  in  the  service  of  the  muse.  Few  of  her  votaries 
afford  a  more  touching  instance  of  suffering  than  the  bard 
of  Olney.  In  the  records  of  mental  disease,  his  case  has 
a  melancholy  prominence — not  that  it  is  wholly  isolated, 

*  Thy  indistinct  expressions  seem 
Like  language  uttered  in  a  dream, 
Yet  me  they  charm,  whate'er  their  theme, 

My  Mar} . 


COWPER. 


85 


but  because  the  patient  tells  his  own  story,  and  hallows 
the  memory  of  his  griefs  by  uniform  gentleness  of  soul 
and  engaging  graces  of  mind.  To  account  for  the 
misery  of  Cowper,  is  not  so  important  as  to  receive  and 
act  upon  the  lesson  it  conveys.  His  history  is  an  ever- 
eloquent  appeal  in  behalf  of  those,  whose  delicate  organ- 
ization and  sensitive  temper  expose  them  to  moral 
anguish.  Whether  his  gloom  is  ascribable  to  a  state  of 
the  brain  as  physiologists  maintain,  to  the  ministry  of 
spirits  as  is  argued  by  the  Swedenborgians,  or  to  the  in- 
fluence of  a  creed  as  sectarians  declare,  is  a  matter  of  no 
comparative  moment — since  there  is  no  doubt  the  germs 
of  insanity  existed  in  his  very  constitution.  "  I  cannot 
bear  much  thinking,"  he  says.  "  The  meshes  of  the 
brain  are  composed  of  such  mere  spinner's  threads  in 
me,  that  when  a  long  thought  finds  its  way  into  them,  it 
buzzes  and  twangs  and  bustles  about  at  such  a  rate  as 
seems  to  threaten  the  whole  contexture."  Recent  dis- 
coveries have  proved  that  there  is  more  physiological 
truth  in  this  remark,  than  the  unhappy  poet  could  ever 
have  suspected.  The  ideas  about  which  his  despair 
gathered,  were  probably  accidental.  His  melancholy 
naturally  was  referred  to  certain  external  causes,  but  its 
true  origin  is  to  be  sought  among  the  mysteries  of  our 
nature.  The  avenues  of  joy  were  closed  in  his  heart. 
He  tells  us,  a  sportive  thought  startled  him.  "  It  is  as  if 
a  harlequin  should  intrude  himself  into  the  gloomy 
chamber  where  a  corpse  is  deposited."  In  reading  his 
productions,  with  a  sense  of  his  mental  condition,  what 
a  mingling  of  human  dignity  and  woe  is  present  to  the 
imagination !  A  mind  evolving  the  most  rational  and 
virtuous  conceptions,  yet  itself  the  prey  of  absurd  delu- 
sions ;  a  heart  overflowing  with  the  truest  sympathy  for 
a  sick  hare,  yet  pained  at  the  idea  of  the  church-honours 
paid  to  Handel;  a  soul  gratefully  recognizing  the  be- 


86 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


nignity  of  God,  in  the  fresh  verdure  of  the  myrtle,  and 
the  mutual  attachment  of  doves,  and  yet  incredulous  of 
his  care  for  its  own  eternal  destiny  !  What  a  striking 
incongruity  between  the  thoughtful  man,  expatiating  in 
graceful  numbers  upon  the  laws  of  Nature  and  the 
claims  of  Religion,  and  the  poor  mortal  deferring  to  an 
ignorant  school-master,  and  "  hunted  by  spiritual  hounds 
in  the  night-season ;"  the  devout  poet  celebrating  his 
Maker's  glory,  and  the  madman  trembling  at  the  wax- 
ing moon ;  the  affectionate  friend,  patient  and  devoted, 
and  the  timid  devotee  deprecating  the  displeasure  of  a 
clergyman,  who  reproved  his  limited  and  harmless  plea- 
sures ! 

It  has  been  objected  to  Hamlet,  that  the  sportiveness 
of  the  prince  mars  the  effect  of  his  thoughtfulness.  It  is 
natural  when  the  mind  is  haunted  and  oppressed  by  any 
painful  idea  which  it  is  necessary  to  conceal,  to  seek  re- 
lief, and  at  the  same  time  increase  the  deception,  by  a 
kind  of  playfulness.  This  is  exemplified  in  Cowper's 
letters.  "  Such  thoughts,"  he  says,  "  as  pass  through  my 
head  when  I  am  not  writing,  make  the  subject  of  my  let- 
ters to  you."  One  overwhelming  thought,  however,  was 
gliding  like  a  dark,  deep  stream  beneath  the  airy  struc- 
tures he  thus  reared  to  keep  his  mind  from  being  swept 
off  by  its  gloomy  current.  To  this  end,  he  surrendered 
his  pen  to  the  most  obvious  pleasantry  at  hand,  and  dallied 
with  the  most  casual  thoughts  of  the  moment,  as  Hamlet 
talks  about  the  "  old  true-penny  in  the  cellerage,"  when 
the  idea  of  his  father's  spirit  is  weighing  with  awful  mys- 
teriousness  upon  his  heart,  and  amuses  himself  with  joking 
Old  Polonius,  when  the  thought  of  filial  revenge  is  sway- 
ing the  very  depths  of  his  soul.  Cowper  speculates  on 
baloons,  moralizes  on  politics,  chronicles  the  details  of 
his  home-experience,  even  to  the  accidents  resulting  from 
the  use  of  a  broken  table,  with  the  charming  air  of  play- 


COWPER. 


87 


fulness  that  marks  the  correspondence  of  a  lively  girl. 
How  often  are  these  letters  the  proofs  of  rare  heroism  ! 
How  often  were  those  flowers  of  fancy  watered  by  a 
bleeding  heart !  By  what  an  effort  of  will  was  his  mind 
turned  from  its  forebodings,  from  the  dread  of  his  wretch- 
ed anniversary,  from  the  one  horrible  idea  that  darkened 
his  being,  to  the  very  trifles  of  common-life,  the  every-day 
circumstances  which  he  knew  so  well  how  to  array  writh 
fresh  interest  and  agreeable  combination  !  Cowper's  story 
indicates  what  a  world  of  experience  is  contained  in  one 
solitary  life.  It  lifts  the  veil  from  a  single  human  bosom, 
and  displays  all  the  elements  of  suffering,  adventure  and 
peace,  which  we  are  apt  to  think  so  dependant  upon  out 
ward  circumstances  !  There  is  more  to  be  learned  from 
such  a  record  than  most  histories  afford.  They  relate 
things  en  masse,  and  battles,  kings  and  courts  pass  before 
us,  like  mists  along  a  mountain-range  ;  but  in  such  a  life 
as  that  of  Cowper,  we  tremble  at  the  capacity  of  woe  in- 
volved in  the  possession  of  sensibility,  and  trace  with  awe 
and  pity  the  mystery  of  a  "  mind  diseased."  The  anato- 
my of  the  soul  is,  as  it  were,  partially  disclosed.  Its  con- 
flicting elements,  its  intensity  of  reflection,  its  marvellous 
action,  fill  us  with  a  new  and  more  tender  reverence.  Nor 
are  the  darker  shades  of  this  remarkable  mental  portrait 
unrelieved.  To  the  reader  of  his  life,  Cowper's  encounter 
with  young  Unwin,  under  the  trees  at  Hunting-don,  is  as 
bright  a  gleam  of  destiny  as  that  which  visited  his  heart 
at  Southampton.  At  the  very  outset  of  his  acquaintance 
with  this  delightful  family,  he  calls  them  "  comfortable 
people."  This  term  may  seem  rather  humble  compared 
with  such  epithets  as  '  brilliant,'  '  gifted '  and  '  interest- 
ing;' but  to  a  refined  mind  it  is  full  of  significance. 
Would  there  were  more  comfortable  people  in  the  world  ! 
Where  there  is  rare  talent  in  a  companion,  there  is  sel- 
dom repose.    Enthusiasm  is  apt  to  make  very  uncom- 


88 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


fortable  demands  upon  our  sympathies,  and  strong-sense 
is  not  infrequently  accompanied  by  a  dogmatical  spirit. 
Erudite  society  is  generally  devoid  of  freshness,  and 
poetical  spirits  have  the  reputation  of  egotism.  How- 
ever improving  such  companions  may  be,  to  sensitive 
persons  they  are  seldom  comfortable.  There  is  a  silent 
influence  in  the  mere  presence  of  every  one,  which, 
whether  animal  magnetism  be  true  or  not,  makes  itself 
felt,  unless  the  nerves  are  insensible ;  and  then  there  is 
a  decided  character  in  the  voice  and  manner,  as  well  as 
in  the  conversation.  In  comfortable  people,  all  these  are 
harmonized.  The  whole  impression  is  cheering.  We 
are  at  ease,  and  yet  gratified  ;  we  are  soothed  and  happy. 
With  such  companionship  was  Cowper  blessed  in  the 
Unwins.  No  '  stricken  deer '  that  ever  left  the  herd  of 
men,  required  such  a  solace  more.  We  cannot  wonder 
it  proved  a  balm.  The  matronly  figure  of  Mrs.  Unwin 
and  her  '  sweet,  serene  face,'  rise  before  the  fancy  as  pic- 
tures of  actual  memory.  We  see  her  knitting  beside  the 
fire  on  a  winter  day,  and  Cowper  writing  opposite  ;  hear 
her  friendly  expostulation  when  he  overtasked  his  mind, 
and  see  the  smile  with  which  she  '  restored  his  fiddle,' 
when  rest  made  it  safe  to  resume  the  pen.  We  follow 
them  with  a  gaze  of  affectionate  respect  as  they  walk  at 
noon  along  the  gravel-walk,  and  honour  the  maternal  so- 
licitude that  sustains  her  patient  vigils  beside  the  sick-bed 
of  the  bard.  In  imagination  we  trace  her  demeanor,  as 
with  true  female  tact  she  contrived  to  make  the  people 
regard  her  charge  only  with  reverence.  Like  a  star  of 
peace  and  promise,  beams  the  memory  of  this  excellent 
woman  upon  Cowper's  sad  history;  and  Lady  Hesketh 
and  1  Sister  Anne  '  are  the  lesser,  but  still  benignant  lu- 
minaries of  that  troubled  sky.  Such  glimpses  of  woman 
vindicate  her  true  rights  more  than  all  the  rhetoric  of 
Mary  Wolstonecraft.    They  prove  her  claim  to  higher 


COWPER. 


89 


respect  than  can  attach  to  the  trophies  of  valour  or  genius. 
They  exhibit  her  in  all  the  dignity  of  pure  affection,  in 
the  discharge  of  duties  and  the  exercise  of  sentiment 
more  exalted  than  the  statesman  or  soldier  can  ever  boast. 
They  throw  around  Olney  more  sacred  associations  than 
those  which  consecrate  Vaucluse.  Not  to  a  selfish  pas- 
sion, not  to  ambitious  display,  not  to  petty  triumphs  did 
these  women  minister,  but  to  a  kindred  nature  whose 
self-sustaining  energies  had  been  weakened,  to  a  rare 
spirit  bereft  of  a  hope,  to  a  noble  heart  over-shadowed 
by  despair.  It  was  an  office  worthy  of  angels  ;  and  even 
on  earth  was  it  thus  fulfilled. 

It  is  not  surprising  that  Byron  denied  to  Cowper  the 
title  of  poet.  To  an  impassioned  imagination,  the  tone 
of  his  writings  cannot  but  appear  subdued  even  to  abso- 
lute tameness.  There  are,  however,  in  his  poems  nights 
of  fancy,  fine  comparisons  and  beautiful  descriptive  sketch- 
es enough  to  quicken  and  impart  singular  interest  to  the 
'  still  life'  so  congenial  to  his  muse.  He  compared  her 
array  not  inaptly  to  a  quaker-costume.  Verse  was  delib- 
erately adopted  by  Cowper  at  a  mature  age,  as  a  medium 
of  usefulness.  His  poetry  is  not  therefore  the  overflowing 
of  youthful  feeling,  and  his  good  judgment  probably  warn- 
ed him  to  avoid  exciting  themes,  even  had  his  inclination 
tended  in  that  direction.  He  became  a  lay-preacher  in 
numbers.  His  object  was  to  improve  men,  not  like  the 
bard  of  Avon  by  powerfully  unfolding  their  passions,  nor 
like  Pope  by  pure  satire  ;  but  rather  through  the  quiet 
teachings  of  a  moralist.  He  discourses  upon  hunting, 
cards,  the  abuses  of  the  clerical  profession  and  other  pre- 
vailing follies,  like  a  man  who  is  convinced  of  the  vanity 
of  worldly  pleasure  and  anxious  to  dispel  its  allusions  from 
other  minds.  His  strain  is  generally  characterized  by 
good  sense,  occasionally  enlivened  by  guiet  humour,  and 
frequently  exhibits  uncommon  beauties  of  style  and  image 
6 


90  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

ry.  It  is  almost  invariably  calm.  Moral  indignation  is 
perhaps  the  only  very  warm  sentiment  with  which  it 
glows.  It  may  be  questioned  whether  Cowper's  previous 
experience  was  the  best  adapted  to  educate  a  reformer. 
He  was  a  member  of  a  society  of  wits,  called  the  '  Non- 
sense Club  and  from  what  we  can  learn  of  his  associates, 
it  is  highly  probable  that  the  moderate  pursuit  of  pleasure 
was  a  spectacle  very  unfamiliar  to  his  youth.  Hence, 
perhaps,  the  severe  light  in  which  he  viewed  society,  and 
the  narrow  system  upon  which  he  judged  mankind. 

'  Truths  that  the  theorist  could  never  reach, 
And  observation  taught  me  I  would  teach.' 

It  is  obvious  that  the  poet's  observation  was  remarka- 
bly nice  and  true  in  certain  departments  of  life,  but  his 
early  diffidence,  few  companions  and  retiring  habits  must 
have  rendered  his  views  of  social  characteristics,  partial 
and  imperfect.  His  pictures  of  spiritual  pride  and  cleri- 
cal foppery  are  indeed  life-like,  but  prejudice  blinded  him 
to  many  of  the  redeeming  traits  of  human  nature,  and  the 
habit  of  judging  all  men  by  the  mere  light  of  his  own 
consciousness  prevented  him  from  realizing  many  of  their 
real  wants,  and  best  instincts.  His  notions  on  the  sub- 
ject of  music,  the  drama,  life  in  cities,  and  some  other 
subjects,  were  one-sided  and  unphilosophical.  He  gene- 
rally unfolds  the  truth,  but  it  is  not  always  the  whole 
truth.  There  is,  too,  a  poetic  remedy  for  human  error, 
that  his  melancholy  temper  forbade  his  applying.  It  is 
derived  from  the  religion  of  hope,  faith  in  man — the  ge- 
nial optimism  which  some  later  bards  have  delightfully 
advocated.  To  direct  men's  thoughts  to  the  redeeming 
aspects  of  life,  to  celebrate  the  sunshine  and  the  flower 
as  types  of  Eternal  goodness  and  symbols  of  human  joy, 
to  lead  forth  the  sated  reveller  and  make  him  feel  the 
glory  of  the  stars  and  the  freshness  of  the  breeze,  to 
breathe  into  the  ear  of  toil  the  melodies  of  evening,  to 


COWPER. 


91 


charm  the  votary  of  fashion  by  endearing  portraitures  of 
humble  virtue — these  have  been  found  moral  specifics, 
superior  to  formal  expostulation  or  direct  appeal.  Cow- 
per  doubtless  exerted  a  happy  influence  upon  his  contem- 
poraries, and  there  is  an  order  of  minds  to  which  his 
teachings  are  peculiarly  adapted.  He  speaks  from  the 
contemplative  air  of  rural  retirement.  He  went  thither 
"  to  muse  on  the  perishing  pleasures  of  life,"  to  prove 
that 

The  only  amaranthine  flower  on  earth, 

Is  Virtue;  the  only  lasting  treasure,  Truth. 

In  favour  of  these  principles  he  addressed  his  country- 
men, and  the  strain  was  worthier  than  any  that  had  long 
struck  their  ears.  Gradually  it  found  a  response,  con- 
firmed the  right  intentions  of  lowly  hearts,  and  carried 
conviction  to  many  a  thoughtful  youth.  There  was  lit- 
tle, however,  in  this  improved  poetry,  of  the  "  richest 
music  of  humanity,"  or  of  the  electrifying  cheerfulness 
of  true  inspiration,  and  hence,  much  ofit  has  lost  its  in- 
terest, and  the  bard  of  Olney  is  known  chiefly  by  a  few 
characteristic  gems  of  moral  meditation  and  graphic  por- 
traiture. Our  obligations,  then,  to  Cowper  as  a  teacher, 
are  comparatively  limited.  He  was  conscious  of  a  good 
design,  and  felt  himself  a  sincere  advocate. 

'  But  nobler  yet,  and  nearer  to  the  skies, 
To  feel  one's  self  in  hours  serene  and  still, 
One  of  the  spirits  chosen  by  Heaven  to  turn 
The  sunny  side  of  things  to  human  eyes.' 

The  most  truly  poetic  phases  of  Cowper's  verse,  are 
the  portions  devoted  to  rural  and  domestic  subjects.  Here 
he  was  at  home  and  alive  to  every  impression.  His  dis- 
position was  of  that  retiring  kind  that  shrinks  from  the 
world,  and  is  free  and  at  ease  only  in  seclusion.  To 
exhibit  himself,  he  tells  us,  was  '  mortal  poison and  his 
favourite  image  to  represent  his  own  condition,  was  drawn 


92 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


from  the  touching  instinct  which  leads  a  wounded  deer 
to  quit  the  herd  and  withdraw  into  lonely  shades  to  die. 
He  desired  no  nearer  view  of  the  world  than  he  could 
gain  from  the  '  busy  map  of  life' — a  newspaper  ;  or 
through  the  '  loop-holes  of  retreat,  to  see  the  stir  of  the 
great  Babel  and  not  feel  the  crowd.'  I  knew  a  lady 
whose  feelings,  in  this  respect,  strongly  resembled  those  ol 
Cowper,  who  assured  me,  she  often  wished  herself  pro- 
vided like  a  snail,  that  she  might  peep  out  securely  from 
her  shell,  and  withdraw  in  a  moment  from  a  stranger's 
gaze  behind  an  impenetrable  shield.  Such  beings  find 
their  chief  happiness  in  the  sacred  privacy  of  home. 
They  leave  every  public  shrine  to  keep  a  constant  vigil 
at  the  domestic  altar.  There  burns  without  ceasing,  the 
fire  of  their  devotion.  They  turn  from  the  idols  of  fash- 
ion to  worship  their  household  gods.  The  fire-side,  the 
accustomed  window,  the  familiar  garden  bound  their 
desires.  To  happy  domestic  influences  Cowper  owed  all 
the  peace  of  mind  he  enjoyed.  He  eulogized  the  blessing 
with  grateful  sincerity. 

0  friendly  to  the  best  pursuits  of  man, 
Friendly  to  thought,  to  virtue  and  to  peace, 
Domestic  life  in  rural  leisure  passed  ! 

"  Constant  occupation  without  care,"  was  his  ideal  of 
existence.  Even  winter  was  endeared  by  its  home-en- 
joyments : 

1  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights 
Fire-side  enjoyments,  home-born  happiness. 

It  was  here  that  the  poet  struck  a  responsive  chord  in  the 
hearts  of  his  countrymen.  He  sang  of  the  sofa — a  me- 
morial of  English  comfort ;  of  home,  the  castle  of  English 
happiness  and  independence  ; — of  the  newspaper — the 
morning  and  evening  pastime  of  Englishmen  ; — of  the 
1  hissing  urn'  and  '  the  cups  that  cheer,  but  not  inebriate' — 
the  peculiar  luxury  of  his  native  land  ; — of  the  '  parlour 


COWPER. 


93 


twilight,'  the  '  winter  evening,'  the  1  noon-day  walk' — all 
subjects  consecrated  by  national  associations.  Goldsmith 
and  Thomson  are  the  poets  of  rural  life,  and  Cowper 
completes  the  charming  triumvirate.  The  latter's  love 
of  the  country  was  absolute. 

I  never  framed  a  wish,  or  formed  a  plan, 
That  flattered  me  with  hopes  of  earthly  bliss, 
But  there  I  laid  the  scene. 

His  description  of  the  pursuits  of  horticulture,  winter 
landscapes,  and  rustic  pleasures,  eloquently  betray  this 
peculiar  fondness  for  the  scenery  and  habits  of  rural  life. 
Many  of  these  pictures  are  unique,  and  constitute  Cow- 
per's  best  title  to  poetic  fame. 


THOMSON. 


Happiness  is  considered  by  many  philosophers  as 
chiefly  dependant  upon  constitution.  There  is  certainly 
a  vast  difference  in  the  susceptibility  to  enjoyment  among 
men,  and  none  the  less  as  regards  their  capacity  of  en- 
durance. An  easy  temperament — a  mind  endowed  with 
luxurious  tastes,  yet  undisturbed  by  intense  desire,  will 
be  sure  of  gratification  when  free  from  physical  suffer- 
ing, and  within  reach  of  its  favourite  objects ;  while 
an  ambitious  and  restless  disposition,  pines  in  the  midst 
of  plenty.  When  an  amiable  heart  is  united  to  ample 
mental  resources,  good  health  and  a  contented  spirit,  a 
certain  quiet  Epicurism  is  the  result  which  renders  life 
prolific  of  pleasure.  Men  thus  organized  and  endowed, 
are  happy  until  actually  deprived  of  their  blessings. 
They  feel  little  concern  for  the  future ;  habitually  disre- 
gard the  painful  associations  of  the  past,  and  cordially 
improve  the  present.  They  contrive  to  maintain  a  per- 
petual truce  with  care.  Their  equanimity  is  not  ruffled 
by  passion.  Their  peace  is  seldom  invaded  by  anxiety. 
Physically  healthy,  the  brain  operates  serenely  ;  optimists 
by  nature,  hope  balances  apprehension,  and  the  heart  pre- 
serves a  complacent  self-possession,  Such  men  never 
have  a  "  lean  and  hungry  look."  They  "  hear  music," 
relish  good  viands,  and  extol  gratitude  as  a  cardinal 
virtue.  Longings  waste  not  their  energies ;  ardent 
hopes  win  not  their  attention  from  the  immediate.  They 


THOMSON. 


95 


are  prompt  on  all  pleasurable  occasions.  Fervid  antici- 
pation mars  not  to  them  reality.  Irritating  regret  chains 
them  not  to  departed  joys.  Life  has  momently  a  fresh 
interest.  They  go  with  the  stream,  and  take  things  as 
they  come,  ever  contriving  to  see  a  rainbow  in  the  midst 
of  the  storm.  Such  men  grow  fat.  They  are  most 
pleasing  companions.  They  put  us  at  ease  and  in  good 
humour  with  the  world.  They  will  not  quarrel,  and  are 
seldom  vexed.  No  fever  of  philanthropy,  no  mania  of 
politics,  no  pressure  of  affairs,  can  permanently  excite 
them.  They  are  all  for  the  calm,  the  sequestered,  the 
tasteful,  the  luxurious.  They  smile  at  the  writhing  of 
the  passionate,  and  pity  the  eager  crowd.  The  world 
calls  them  lazy,  and  they  are  not  anxious  to  discredit  the 
title.  In  literature,  such  men  form  the  exception,  not  the 
rule.  The  pursuit  of  letters  is  too  often  joined  with 
morbid  vanity  and  insatiable  ambition.  Were  it  not  for 
an  occasional  example  of  the  Epicurean  letterato,  the  pro- 
fession might  be  deemed  incompatible  with  happiness. 
Where  the  "  elements  are  so  mixed"  in  the  man  as  to 
promote  the  poet's  felicity,  few  human  beings  derive  from 
existence,  higher  and  more  constant  satisfaction.  The 
muse  to  these  souls  comes  with  little  courting.  Study  is 
but  infrequently  a  toil.  Such  spirits  wait  for  good 
rather  than  seek  it;  above  all,  they  appropriate  it,  and, 
unless  fortune  is  strangely  perverse,  obtain  and  actualize 
more  than  an  average  share. 

Of  this  species  was  James  Thomson.  When  he  first 
went  up  to  London  with  "  Winter"  as  a  capital,  while  en- 
joying the  view  of  city  novelties,  he  suffered  his  intro- 
ductory letters  to  be  purloined.  He  was  unadroit,  a  poor 
horseman,  and  a  bad  reader.  The  affections  once  con- 
centrated upon  Amanda,  were  disperssd  among  his 
friends  and  family ;  but  he  was  a  celibate  rather  from 
necessity  than  choice. 


96  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

A  literary  lady  invited  him  to  pass  the  summer  at  her 
country-seat,  but  instead  of  nattering  her  intellectual 
propensity  by  sage  conversation,  he  preferred  to  sip  wine 
with  her  husband,  and  so  lost  the  favour  of  a  Countess. 
He  was  once  seen  to  bite  out  the  sunny  side  of  a  peach 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets.  A  lover  of  music,  he  did 
not  fatigue  himself  with  blowing  a  flute  or  flourishing  a 
fiddle-bow,  but  kept  an  iEolian  harp  in  his  window,  and 
listened  to  the  nightingales. 

Lend  me  your  song,  ye  nightingales  !  oh  pour 
The  mazy  running  soul  of  melody 
Into  my  varied  verse. 

He  courted  the  great  for  patronage,  rather  than  seek 
"  toilsome  gains"  by  the  industrious  exercise  of  his  pow- 
ers. He  neglected  his  private  concerns,  until  want  or 
friendship  goaded  him  to  exertion.  He  mused  pleasantly 
when  alone,  sat  silent  in  large  companies,  and  let  the 
current  of  his  soul  flow  freely  among  his  intimate  com- 
panions. He  composed  chiefly  at  night,  when  social 
allurements  did  not  interfere  with  his  meditations.  To 
him  might  well  apply  what  was  said  of  a  similar  charac- 
ter— "  Give  him  his  leg  of  mutton  and  bottle  of  wine,  and, 
in  the  very  thick  of  calamity,  he  would  be  happy  for  the 
time  being."  He  speaks  of  the  "  godlike  wisdom  of  the 
tempered  breast,"  and  remarks — "  to  have  always  some 
secret,  darling  idea,  to  which  one  can  still  have  recourse, 
amidst  the  noise  and  nonsense  of  the  world,  and  which 
never  fails  to  touch  us  in  the  most  exquisite  manner,  is 
an  art  of  happiness  that  fortune  cannot  deprive  us  of." 

The  very  diction  of  Thomson  breathes  a  kind  of  luxu- 
rious serenity.  The  opening  stanzas  of  the  Castle  of  In- 
dolence present  a  scene  of  dreamy  repose,  which  soothes 
and  wins  the  fancy  like  an  Eastern  tale. 


THOMSON. 


97 


Here  naught  but  candour  reigns,  indulgent  ease, 
Good-natur'd  lounging,  sauntering  up  and  down  : 

They  who  are  pleased  themselves  must  always  please : 
On  other's  ways  they  never  squint  or  frown, 
Nor  heed  what  haps  in  hamlet  or  in  town. 
****** 

What,  what  is  virtue,  but  repose  of  mind, 
A  pure  ethereal  calm,  that  knows  no  storm; 

Above  the  reach  of  wild  ambition's  wind, 

Above  those  passions  that  this  world  deform  ? 

The  following  is  a  friend's  description  of  Thomson,  in- 
serted in  his  own  poem  : 

A  bard  here  dwelt,  more  fat  than  bard  beseems, 
Who  void  of  envy,  guile,  and  lust  of  gain, 

On  virtue  still,  and  Nature's  pleasing  themes, 
Poured  forth  his  unpremeditated  strain  : 

The  world  forsaking  with  a  calm  disdain, 
Here  laugh'd  he  careless  in  his  easy  seat ; 

Here  quaffed  encircled  with  the  joyous  train, 
Oft  moralizing  sage;  his  ditty  sweet, 
He  loathed  much  to  write,  he  cared  no't  to  repeat. 

The  blank-verse  of  the  "  Seasons"  has  none  of  the 
lofty  effort  of  Milton,  nor  the  passionate  force  so  common 
in  Shakspere.  It  is  flowing  and  free.  We  perceive, 
indeed,  a  careful  selection  of  words,  and  are  sometimes 
conscious  of  a  studied  construction.  But,  generally- 
speaking,  the  language  of  Thomson  is  diffuse.  His 
native  idleness  tinctures  his  poetic  style.  Perhaps  its 
peculiar  charm  consists  in  the  facility  and  unfettered 
course  of  the  rhythm.  One  reason,  however,  of  the 
vagueness  of  the  impression  we  derive  from  his  poetry, 
is  the  prolixity  of  the  language.  Several  times  in  the 
course  of  this  poem,  occurs  the  word  "amusive" — an 
epithet  which  admirably  serves  to  designate  the  charac- 
ter of  Thomson's  verse. 

Although,  for  the  most  part,  the  bard  of  the  "  Sea- 
sons," was  a  passive  recipient  of  poetical  influences, 
0* 


93 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


rather  than  a  devoted  worshipper  and  enthusiastic  stu- 
dent, let  us  fully  recognize  the  worth  of  such  poetry. 
There  is  a  meditative  interest  and  quiet  morality  inter- 
woven with  its  pictures.    In  accordance  with  his  cast  of 
mind,  Thomson  deemed  secluded  ease  infinitely  prefera- 
ble to  the  "  weary  labyrinth  of  state,"  or  the  "  smooth 
barbarity  of  courts."    His  essentials  of  happiness  were 
An  elegant  sufficiency,  content, 
Retirement,  rural  quiet,  friendship,  books, 
Ease  and  alternate  labour,  useful  life, 
Progressive  virtue,  and  approving  Heaven. 

And  with  genuine  poetic  pride,  he  sings : 
I  care  not  Fortune  what  you  me  deny, 

You  cannot  rob  me  of  free  Nature's  grace  ; 
You  cannot  shut  the  windows  of  the  sky, 

Through  which  Aurora  shows  her  brightening  face ; 
You  cannot  bar  my  constant  feet  to  trace, 

The  woods  or  lawn,  by  living  stream  at  eve; 
Let  health  my  nerves  and  finer  fibres  brace, 

And  I  their  toys  to  the  great  children  leave  : 

Of  fancy,  reason,  virtue  nought  can  me  bereave. 

The  tragedies  and  several  minor  efforts  of  Thomson 
are  now  quite  neglected ;  and  he  is  remembered  by  two 
poems  only.  The  reflective  portions  of  these  works  are 
unquestionable  as  regards  the  principles  and  motives  in- 
culcated. There  is  often  a  pure  vein  of  devotion  and 
patriotic  feeling,  which  imparts  the  most  pleasing  impres- 
sion of  the  poet's  views  and  character,  and  sufficiently  ac- 
counts for  the  warm  personal  estimation  in  which  he  was 
held. 

The  "  Seasons"  ranks  high  in  English  poetry,  chiefly 
from  its  descriptive  fidelity.  If  an  inhabitant  of  this 
planet  were  suddenly  transferred  to  another  sphere  where 
an  entirely  different  order  of  things  prevailed,  this  poem 
would  forever  preserve  to  his  mind  a  vivid  picture  of  the 
earth  he  has  quitted.  Thomson  seems  to  have  proceeded 
most  conscientiously  in  his  genial  task.  He  has  indited  an 


THOMSON. 


99 


artist-like  and  correct  nomenclature  of  the  phenomena  of 
Nature.  For  the  most  part  the  "  Seasons"  is  a  narrative 
of  physical  facts,  familiar  to  every  one.  This  explains 
the  attractiveness  of  the  poem.  We  are  ever  delighted 
with  a  true  representation  of  whatever  interests  us.  It 
requires  an  introspective  mind  to  appreciate  the  grand 
portraitures  of  human  passion  and  experience  ;  but  the 
graphic  delineation  of  sensible  objects  appeals  to  univer- 
sal observation.  Hence  the  popularity  of  Thomson.  He 
has  faithfully  traced  the  various  changes  consequent  upon 
the  varying  Year.  The  alternate  vocations  of  husbandry, 
the  successive  sports  which  beguile  the  monotony  of  coun- 
try life,  the  drought  and  the  freshet,  the  snow-storm  and 
the  spring  morning,  the  midsummer  noon  and  the  winter 
night,  have  found  in  him  a  graceful  chronicler.  His 
pages  recall  at  once  and  with  singular  life  the  associations 
of  the  Seasons.  Beyond  this,  they  have  no  very  strong 
hold  upon  the  feelings.  We  derive  from  them  few  pow- 
erful impressions.  Their  influence  is  pleasing,  but  vague. 
There  is  a  remarkable  repose  in  the  strain.  It  is  more 
like  the  agreeable  lassitude  of  a  summer  afternoon,  than 
the  clear  excitement  of  an  autumn  morning.  The  taste- 
ful diction  is  often  cold  ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  digres- 
sions which  the  poet  makes  to  express  occasionally  some 
cherished  feeling,  we  should  often  find  him  rather  tame 
and  business-like.  But  the  amiable  and  excellent  senti- 
ments he  displays,  the  overflowing  kindness  of  his  heart, 
and  the  pensive  morality  scattered  among  his  descriptions, 
serve  to  enliven  them  with  something  of  a  personal,  ten- 
der and  attractive  hue. 

I  cannot  go 
Where  universal  Love  smiles  not  around, 
Sustaining  all  yon  orbs  and  all  their  sons ; 
From  seeming  evil  still  educing  good ; 
And  better  thence  again,  and  better  still 
In  infinite  progression. 


100 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


The  scholar,  the  friend  and  the  idle  dreamer,  appear 
as  conspicuously  as  the  bard.  The  very  familiarity  of 
the  scenes  and  circumstances,  to  which  the  poem  is  de- 
voted, is  attractive.  It  is  worthy  of  note,  that  we  are  as 
easily  interested  by  what  is  exceedingly  familiar,  as  by 
the  novel  and  extraordinary.  If  a  writer  does  not  "  o'er- 
step  the  modesty  of  nature,"  we  like  him  all  the  better 
for  treating-  of  what  is  very  near  to  us.  The  curiosity  of 
the  multitude  is  not  extensive.  The  most  universal  sym- 
pathy is  that  devoted  to  what  is  adjacent.  Cervantes  rose 
to  fame  by  describing  the  manners  of  his  own  country. 
There  are  hundreds  who  follow  Thomson  with  delight 
over  the  every-day  scenes  of  the  earth,  to  one  who  soars 
with  Milton  beyond  its  confines.  Hence  it  has  been  said 
that  "  the  Seasons  look  best  a  little  torn  and  dog's-eared 
and  a  man  of  genius  who  saw  a  copy  in  this  condition  on 
the  window-seat  of  an  ale-house,  exclaimed — "  this  is 
fame  !"  Paul  Jones  was  a  devoted  lover  of  this  poem. 
What  a  contrast  must  its  peaceful  beauty  have  presented 
to  the  scenes  of  violence  and  danger  in  which  he  de- 
lighted ! 

The  varying  popularity  of  celebrated  works  is  to  be 
accounted  for  principally  by  their  distance  or  vicinity  to 
the  associations  of  each  age.  We  sometimes  yawn  over 
Ariosto's  battles  and  knights,  while  we  are  often  kindled 
and  charmed  by  Childe  Harold.  Chivalrie  enterprises 
belong  to  the  past ;  but  a  tour  through  Switzerland  and 
Italy,  is  among  the  common  achievements  of  the  day. 
And  thus  Thomson  is  indebted  to  his  faithful  pictures  of 
Nature's  annual  decay  and  renovation,  for  his  continued 
estimation  as  a  poet. 

"  Remembrance  oft  shall  haunt  the  shore, 
When  Thames  in  summer-wreaths  is  drest, 
And  oft  suspend  the  dripping  oar, 
To  bid  his  gentle  spirit  rest." 


YOUNG. 


The  associations  connected  with  Young,  are  quite 
incongruous.  His  very  name  is  out  of  place  as  applied 
to  his  productions  ;  it  would  be  difficult  to.  discover  an 
equal  quantity  of  verse  less  coloured  and  warmed  by  gen- 
uine youthful  feeling.  We  can  hardly  realize  that 
Young  was  ever  young.  Where,  we  are  ready  to  ask, 
is  that  confidence  in  good,  that  buoyant  hope,  that  ardent 
recognition  of  the  true  delights  of  being,  which  throw 
such  a  charm  around  the  effusions  of  youth  ? 

Nor  does  the  discrepancy  end  here.  Two  of  the  best 
known  anecdotes  of  Young,  are  in  direct  contradiction  to 
the  spirit  of  his  muse.  The  first  is  that  gallant  reply  to 
two  ladies,  who  forced  him  to  leave  them  in  a  garden,  to 
receive  a  visitor  : 

Thus  Adam  looked  when  from  the  garden  driven, 
And  thus  disputed  orders  sent  from  Heaven  ; 
Like  him  I  go  ;  but  yet  to  go  am  loth, 
Like  him  I  go,  for  angels  drove  us  both  ; 
Hard  was  his  fate,  but  mine  still  more  unkind, 
His  Eve  went  with  him  but  mine  stays  behind. 

The  other  incident  occurred  while  he  was  with  a  gay 
party  in  a  pleasure-boat.  A  gentleman  rather  pertina- 
ciously insisted  that  he  should  play  on  his  flute,  and  to 
revenge  himself,  Young  is  said  to  have  challenged  him, 
and  then  with  a  pistol  aimed  at  his  head,  forced  him  to 
dance  a  hornpipe  by  way  of  retaliation. 


102 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Other  poets  have  sung  with  spontaneous  joy  of  the 
loveliness  of  earth  and  the  sweetness  of  affection,  and 
seem  to  have  found  in  their  fresh  hearts,  an  antidote  for 
outward  evil.  This  man  gathers  up  the  shadows,  and 
seldom  inweaves  amid  them,  either  sunbeams  or  starlight. 
Other  bards  have  first  struck  the  lyre  to  celebrate  the 
merits  of  one  beloved,  or  reflect  scenes  of  natural  beauty ; 
this  one,  chose  for  his  first  theme,  "  The  Last  Day." 
Life,  with  its  mysterious  experience,  its  stirring  inci- 
dents, its  warm  hopes  and  lofty  aspirations,  has  inspired 
the  early  efforts  of  most  poets  ;  but  to  Young,  death  was 
a  subject  more  congenial  and  attractive.  The  burden  of 
his  lays  is  contempt  of  earthly  grandeur,  and  yet  he 
sought  preferment  all  his  life.  His  poems  advocate  a 
competency,  as  the  only  just  desire  of  a  reasonable  being, 
in  this  world ;  but  he  has  left  behind  him  a  reputation 
for  parsimony.  No  one  has  set  forth  in  stronger  lan- 
guage the  dangers  of  social  life ;  yet  in  his  retire- 
ment, the  gloomy  bard  pined  at  the  world's  neglect,  and 
welcomed  every  stray  visitor,  in  such  a  manner  as  to 
belie  his  recorded  opinions  of  human  nature.  He  coun- 
selled Lorenzo  in  strains  of  solemn  warning,  against 
Court  subserviency;  while  every  book  of  the  poem  is 
dedicated  to  some  noble  friend,  and  the  sage  counsellor 
was  indebted  to  patronage  for  his  chief  privileges,  and 
would  fain  have  increased  the  obligations ! 

The  true  office  of  the  minstrel  is  to  cheer.  We  do  not 
turn  to  poetry  to  aggravate,  but  to  lighten  the  sorrows  of 
our  lot.  Its  office  should  be  consoling.  The  genuine 
poet  is  an  optimist.  He  instinctively  seizes*  the  redeem- 
ing feature  in  a  landscape,  a  circumstance  or  a  face.  He 
fondly  dwells  on  better  moments.  He  loves  to  reconcile 
man  to  life.  The  blessing  and  not  the  bane,  gives  excite- 
ment to  his  thoughts.  Indeed,  what  the  phrenologists 
call  ideality,  appears  to  be  a  quality  beneficently  provided, 


YOUNG. 


103 


for  the  very  purpose  of  meliorating  the  aspects  of  exis- 
tence to  the  consciousness  of  man.  Hence  the  uncloud- 
ed brightness  of  many  a  reminiscence,  and  the  joyous 
excitement  of  many  a  hope.  Hence  those  blended  pic- 
tures which  sometimes  rise  to  the  fancy,  in  which  the 
shades  of  life  only  serve  to  illustrate  its  sunny  portions. 
Poetry  should  not  haunt  the  unwholesome  mine,  unless 
with  a  safety-lamp  of  sunshine.  It  is  her  vocation  to 
collect  to  a  focus,  the  scattered  rays  of  happiness  ;  to  gath- 
er the  flowers  in  our  path,  and  twine  them  into  wreaths 
to  deck  the  brow  of  care  ;  to  lead  us  beside  waters  that 
"  go  softly,"  and  not  to  the  barren  shores  of  the  Dead 
Sea ;  to  lift  our  gaze  to  the  mountains  and  the  stars ; 
and  waft  to  our  ears,  "  the  music  of  humanity,"  ra- 
ther than  her  groans.  Let  every  man  beware  how  he 
gives  expression  in  verse  or  prose,  to  morbid  feeling. 
Let  him  suffer  in  silence.  If  he  have  nothing  hopeful 
to  communicate,  let  him  hold  his  peace.  We  see  and 
hear  and  feel  enough  of  gloomy  import,  for  all  purposes 
of  discipline.  If  any  one  strike  the  lyre,  we  pray  it  be  to 
a  strain  which  shall  elevate  us  above  "  the  smoke  and  stir 
of  this  dim  spot."  Let  the  problem  of  human  suffering 
be  approached  only  by  those,  who  carry  balm  for  the 
wounded,  and  solace  for  the  mourner. 

Young  did  not  thus  regard  the  art  he  cultivated.  His 
early  life  is  said  to  have  been  rather  unprincipled.  Per- 
haps be  drank  so  intemperately  of  the  cup  of  pleasure 
while  a  youth,  that  little  but  the  dregs  remained  for  after 
life.  Certain  it  is,  that  he  took  no  little  satisfaction  in 
setting  forth  the  miseries  of  life  in  gloomy  array ;  and 
no  discriminating  mind  can  fail  to  perceive,  that  the 
M  Complaint"  is  infinitely  more  effective  than  the  "  Conso- 
lation." The  former  appears  to  have  been  written  con 
amore ;  the  latter  has  a  forced  and  formal  air.  As  a 
picture  of  life,  Young's  Night  Thoughts  are  partial  and 


104 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


morbid.    Their  poetry,  however,  consists  in  so  melancholy 
a  concatenation  of  ideas,  as  occasionally  to  afford  a  sublime 
sensation.    We  can  readily  believe,  that  the  bard  was 
accustomed  to  write  by  the  light  of  a  candle  stuck  in  a 
human  skull.    This  species  of  poetic  sadness  has  a 
foundation  in  our  nature.    At  certain  periods,  every  man 
of  a  reflective  cast  and  strong  imagination,  takes  a  kind 
of  melancholy  pleasure  in  musing  among  the  tombs, 
confronting  the  effigies  of  mortality,  and  giving  his 
thoughts  free  range  amid  the  associations  of  death. — 
In  Egypt,  we  are  told,  sepulchral  monuments  often  outvie 
the  dwellings  of  the  living,  both  in  number  and  magnifi- 
cence ;  and  we  can  easily  fancy  the  sad  interest  of  the 
traveller  as  he  marks  the  sculptured  tombs,  and  hears, 
along  the  banks  of  the  solemn  Nile,  the  wailing  over  an 
Arab's  corpse.    But  there  is  a  limit,  beyond  which,  such 
contemplations  transcend  the  bounds  both  of  true  poetry 
and  healthful  moral  impression.    No  one  can  discover 
any  superior  sanctity  among  the  Capuchins  of  Italy, 
because  of  their  vigils  in  catacombs,  or  of  their  familiar- 
ity with  -the  ghastly  remains  of  their  departed  brethren. 
And  it  is  precisely  here  that  Young  has  "  o'erstepped  the 
modesty  of  nature."    His  portraiture  of  death  and  hu- 
man ills,  is  too  unrelieved  for  wholesome  effect.  To 
realize  how  uniform  are  his  notes  of  woe,  let  any  one 
read,  or  attempt  to  read,  the  Night  Thoughts,  consecu- 
tively.   There  are  powerful  passages,  ingenious  figures, 
terse  and  vivid  expressions  ;  and,  in  certain  moods,  frag- 
ments of  this  elaborate  poem,  cannot  but  afford  pleasure 
and  awaken  admiration. 

There  is  a  very  striking  metaphor  comparing  pleasure 
to  quicksilver  ;  and  the  following  are  fair  examples  of 
his  impressive  figures: 

u  —  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air, 

Soon  close  ;  where  passed  the  shaft,  no  trace  is  found, 


YOUNG. 


105 


As  from  the  wing  no  stain  the  sky  retains  ; 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel ; 
So  dies,  in  human  hearts,  the  thought  of  death. 

Like  birds,  whose  beauties  languish  half-concealed, 
Till  mounted  on  the  wing,  their  glossy  plumes 
Expanded,  shine  with  azure, green  and  gold; 
So  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight. 

The  nameless  He  whose  nod  is  nature's  birth, 
And  nature's  shield  the  shadow  of  his  hand ; 
Her  dissolution,  his  suspended  smile. 

But  as  a  whole,  as  a  book  to  grow  familiar  with,  it  is 
in  no  small  degree  false  to  the  true  ends  of  poetry.  The 
morality  is  too  often  little  better  than  mere  prudence. 
One  of  his  arguments  for  piety  is,  "  'tis  highly  prudent 
to  make  one  sure  friend."    His  personification  is*  fre- 
quently bombastic.     His  language  sometimes  becomes 
common-place  and  turgid ;  and  we  are  obliged  to  confess 
that  in  this,  as  in  almost  all  other  long  poems,  the  de- 
sign is  too  extended,  and  the  real  gold  beaten  out  to  an 
extent  perfectly  unwarrantable.    The  first  books  are  un- 
doubtedly the  best.    They  were  inspired  by  personal 
grief,  and  therefore  have  a  force  and  effect,  which  gradu- 
ally disappear  as  we  proceed.    From  a  poet,  the  mourner 
became  a  theologian,  a  croaker,  a  reasoner,  and  a  prosy 
sermonizer.    There  are  leagues  of  desert,  and  only  here 
and  there  an  oasis.    In  portraying  his  domestic  afflic- 
tions, Young  is  truly  eloquent,  and  we  feel  with  him  and 
for  him.    In  estimating  life,  satirizing  the  love  of  fame 
or  of  pleasure,  and  decrying  the  world,  there  is  something 
too  professional,  laboured  and  partial  in  his  style,  to  pro- 
duce effect.    We  involuntarily  think  of  the  disappointed 
churchman,  and  fancy  that,  in  his  dreams,  whatever  were 
his  night-thoughts,  Queen  Mab  visited  him  with  visions 
of  "  another  benefice."    There  are  some  clever  lines  in 
his  satires.     His  tragedy — "  The  Revenge."  has  been 


106 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


famous,  but  the  reader  is  so  constantly  reminded  of  Othel- 
lo, that  its  merits  are  quite  lost  in  the  associations  of 
that  sublime  drama. 

I  remember  stopping  at  a  book-stall  in  Florence,  in 
company  with  a  young  Italian  of  strong  poetical  sympa- 
thies. He  pointed,  with  a  visible  shudder,  to  a  transla- 
tion of  "  Young's  Night  Thoughts,"  and  asked  me,  who 
Dut  a  Briton  could  ever  read  that  epitome  of  English 
gloom.  The  idea  of  this  poem  being  read  at  a  dinner,  or 
m  the  garden  of  a  villa,  to  a  party  of  ladies  and  knights, 
after  the  manner  of  Tasso  and  Ariosto,  is  certainly  amus- 
ing. Yet  there  is  a  peculiar  charm  to  Northern  imagina- 
tions, in  some  of  Young's  dark  pencillings.  The  peo- 
ple of  high  latitudes,  are  subject  to  moods  of  reflection  in 
which  such  serious  recognition  of  sad  truths  is  genial,  and 
even  fascinating;  and  at  such  moments,  they  prefer  Ec- 
clesiasies  to  Solomon's  Song — the  dark  grove  of  pines  to 
the  bower  of  vine-leaves,  and  Dr.  Young  to  Thomas 
Moore.  Accordingly,  many  lines  of  the  former  have 
passed  into  proverbs  :  and  among  the  good  dames  and 
thoughtful  gentlemen  of  the  past  generation,  a  well- 
thumbed  copy  of  the  Night  Thoughts  often  attested  the 
veneration  they  inspired.  The  point  of  just  sympathy 
with  our  author  is,  however,  confined  to  his  personal  af- 
flictions. We  recognize  the  excellence  of  Narcissa,  who 
"  sparkled,  was  exhaled,  and  went  to  heaven,"  and  fol- 
low the  poet  with  tender  reverence,  as  he  bears  her  body, 
to  that  solitary  garden  in  Montpelier,  where  with  "  pious 
sacrilege  a  grave  he  stole."  We  echo  the  touching  in- 
quiry which  so  many  hearts  have  addressed  to  Death; — 
Insatiate  archer  !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

It  is  only  when  Young  elaborates  his  theme,  and  at- 
tempts to  throw  a  pall  over  the  universe,  to  collect  the 
shadows  of  life  into  a  portentous  array,  to  brood  over 
and  magnify  evil,  that  we  feel  that  his  influence  is  un- 


YOUNG. 


107 


grateful,  and  perceive  that  spleen,  rather  than  philosophy 
guides  his  pen.  Let  us  bring  together  a  few  of  his 
gloomy  truisms,  and  see  if  their  contemplation  be  calcu- 
lated to  make  our  actual  lot  any  happier  and  more  im- 
proving : 

 sleep — 

Swift  on  her  downy  pinions  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

All  on  earth  is  shadow,  all  beyond 
Is  substance. 

The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  slender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss. 

War,  famine,  pest,  volcano,  storm  and  fire, 
Intestine  broils,  oppression,  with  her  heart 
Wrapt  up  in  triple  brass,  besiege  mankind. 

Our  very  wishes  give  us  not  our  wish. 

The  smoothest  course  of  Nature  has  its  pain, 
And  truest  friends,  through  error,  wound  our  rest. 

Loud  sorrows  howl,  envenomed  passions  bite, 
Ravenous  calamities  our  vitals  seize. 

At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 
Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan. 

Life^e  war, 
Eternal  war  with  woe. 

Fresh  hopes  are  hourly  sown 
In  furrowed  brows. 

How  swift  the  shuttle  flies  that  weaves  thy  shroud '. 

Fondness  for  fame  is  avarice  of  air. 

Death  loves  a  shining  mark. 

There's  not  a  day,  but,  to  the  man  of  thought 
Betrays  some  secret,  that  throws  new  reproach 
On  life,  and  makes  him  sick  of  seeing  man. 


108  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Doubtless  there  is  more  or  less  truth  in  these  and  a 
thousand  other  similar  phrases  of  Young ;  but  let  it  be 
remembered,  that  they  are  not  the  whole  truth  ;  and  if 
they  were,  the  truth  is  not  to  be  spoken  at  all  times.  If 
the  courteous  and  Christian,  though  worldly-minded  doc- 
tor, had  imbibed  a  more  cheerful  theology ;  if  he  had 
walked  less  in  grave-yards  and  more  among  his  fellow- 
creatures  ;  if  an  expansive  benevolence  and  a  sunny  tem- 
per had  made  him  more  alive  to  the  good,  the  beautiful 
and  the  true,  he  would  have  suffered  some  misgivings,  in 
thus  libelling  this  poor  world,  and  exaggerating  the  trials 
of  life.  Instead  of  lamenting  our  "  short  correspondence 
with  the  sun,"  he  would  have  rejoiced  in  its  beams  while 
he  could.  Instead  of  declaring  the  "  clime  of  human  life 
inclement,"  he  would  have  done  his  best  to  warm  it  with 
the  glow  of  social  sympathy  and  cheerful  gratitude.  In- 
stead of  finding  "  human  happiness"  a  "  sad  sight,"  he 
would  have  been  exhilarated  at  its  presence,  however 
transient;  and  felt  thankful,  that,  with  all  their  troubles, 
it  is  still  given  to  frail  mortals, 

"  To  drink  the  golden  spirit  of  the  day, 
And  triumph  in  existence." 

Young's  command  of  language  is  remarkable,  and 
many  of  his  comparisons  ingenious.  We  are  surprised  to 
encounter  in  the  midst  of  some  of  his  loftiest  flights,  an 
image  borrowed  from  familiar  and  comTiion  life.  Per- 
haps it  is  this  mingling  of  the  well-known  and  the  lofty, 
that  makes  him  a  favourite  with  a  certain  class  of  read- 
ers. To  this  attraction  must  be  added  his  evangelical 
character  and  the  religious  tone  he  assumes,  which  in- 
vest his  poems  with  no  little  authority,  in  the  view  of 
those  who  profess  similar  tenets.  But  while  in  justice 
we  allow  him  occasional  felicity  and  impressiveness  of 
thought  and  grandeur  of  style,  we  cannot  but  agree  with 
Dr.  Johnson,  that  it  is  very  difficult  to  assign  any  general 


YOUNG. 


109 


character  to  him  as  a  poet.  He  has  no  fair  claim  to  be 
considered  emphatically  the  minstrel  of  the  tomb,  or  the 
bard  of  sorrow.  The  mournful  aspects  of  human  life  and 
destiny  can  be  set  forth  in  a  far  nobler  manner.  Around 
the  memories  of  the  departed,  poetry  has  scattered  far 
richer  flowers  than  can  be  found  in  the  Night  Thoughts. 
The  sorrows  of  humanity  have  been  sung  in  sweeter 
strains.  Lessons  of  courage  and  hope,  emotions  of  pa- 
tient tenderness,  sentiments  of  magnanimity  and  trust 
have  been  inspired,  when  bards  of  more  simplicity  and 
love  have  struck  the  lyre.  Poetry  can  make  even  the 
thought  of  death  beautiful,  and  the  sadness  of  bereave- 
ment not  without  a  certain  pleasure.  Great  poets  have 
elicited  from  the  sternest  suffering,  a  principle  of  enjoy- 
ment. Sublime  faith  and  earnest  love  can  conjure  spirits 
the  most  lovely  from  the  darkest  abyss.  By  exhibiting 
human  energy  in  conflict  with  adversity,  by  giving  free 
scope  to  the  eloquence  of  sorrow,  by  invoking  the  spirit 
of  hope,  the  muse  often  weaves  a  rainbow  over  the  valley 
of  tears.  Who  pities  Hamlet?  Who  does  not  recog- 
nize a  profound  interest  in  the  workings  of  his  delicate 
soul,  surpassing  and  illuming  the  darkness  of  his  lot  ? 
Who  is  not  soothed  instead  of  saddened  by  true  elegiac 
poetry — the  tender  strains,  for  instance,  of  such  a  bard  as 
Hervey  ?  Night,  even  to  the  mourner,  brings  not,  ever 
or  often,  such  unalloyed  bitterness  as  Young  portrays. 
To  Schiller  and  Thomson  it  was  the  brightest  season.  To 
the  genuine  poetical  soul  its  silence  and  shadows,  its 
moaning  breeze  and  countless  stars,  its  mystery  and  beau- 
tiful repose,  bring  a  solemn  happiness.  We  may,  in- 
deed, then  "  keep  assignation  with  our  woe  but  in  such 
peaceful  and  lovely  hours,  how  often  does  anguish  melt 
in  tears  and  wild  grief  become  sad  musing!  How  often 
by  some  invisible  influence,  do  we  grow  reconciled  and 
hopeful '    How  often  do  "  stars  look  down  as  they  were 


110 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


angel's  eyes  !"  Many  of  the  sentiments,  and  most  of  the 
spirit  of  Young's  Night  Thoughts,  is  false  to  the  true  in- 
spiration and  the  holy  effulgence  of  that  sacred  season. 
To  one  of  our  own  poets  it  has  spoken  in  a  higher  arid 
more  blessed  strain.  He  makes  us  feel  that  there  are 
"  Voices  of  the  Night"  which  cheer,  elevate,  and  console  : 

0  holy  night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before  ! 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door  ; 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

0,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside, 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

0  fear  not,  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  ere  long, 
Know,  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 


ALFIERI. 


Perhaps  there  is  no  character  in  modern  literary  his- 
tory who  so  strikingly  illustrates  the  power  of  will  as 
Victor  Alfieri.  Irresolution  is  one  of  the  most  common 
infirmities  of  poetic  genius.  In  practical  pursuits  firm- 
ness of  purpose  is  so  essential  to  success  that  the  want  of 
it  very  soon  leads  to  fatal  consequences.  Intellectual 
effort,  on  the  contrary,  is  so  much  more  dependant  for  its 
power  and  felicity  upon  peculiar  moods  of  feeling  and 
combinations  of  circumstances,  that  we  scarcely  expect  a 
continuous  regularity  in  its  exercise.  Hence  we  speak  of 
a  writer's  happy  moments,  of  being  in  the  vein  for  a  par- 
ticular subject,  arid  of  the  ebb  and  flow  of  that  mysteri- 
ous tide  of  inspiration  which  bears  into  light  the  crea- 
tions of  thought.  Imaginative  men  are  confessedly  more 
variable,  capricious,  and  undeterminate  than  others. 
Their  memoirs  usually  exhibit  the  utmost  want  of  method 
and  continuity  as  regards  the  time  and  progress  of  their 
labours.  Individuals  of  strong  sense  and  calm  tempera- 
ment can  discern  no  law  governing  the  mental  existence 
of  poetical  beings.  There  is  so  much  that  is  apparently 
wayward  and  disorderly  in  the  application  of  their  gifts, 
that  ill  success  in  life  is  proverbially  their  lot,  and  com- 
mon prejudice  deems  all  genius  erratic.  Probably  no 
single  fact  relative  to  Scott  has  excited  greater  surprise 
than  his  habitual  and  regular  industry.  Social  and  local 
influences,  personal  circumstances,  the  state  of  the  health, 


112 


ALFIERI. 


and  even  of  the  weather — and  far  more,  the  mood  of 
mind,  are  supposed  to  absolve  poets  from  the  obligation  of 
firmness.    Victor  Alfieri  demonstrated  the  immense  effi- 
cacy of  this  single  quality.    We  are  almost  tempted,  as 
we  contemplate  his  career,  to  rank  powerful  volition  with 
genius  itself.    For  by  virtue  of  his  force  of  purpose  he 
overcame  the  formidable  obstacles  of  a  most  unpropitious 
education,  long  habits  of  indulgence  and  an  undisci- 
plined mind.    Upon  the  most  unpromising  basis  he 
reared  a  splendid  intellectual  fabric.    Amid  the  most  en- 
ervating influences  he  displayed  extraordinary  strength. 
With  scarcely  any  external  encouragement  he  wrought 
out  in  his  own  nature  a  stupendous  revolution.    His  ex- 
ample is  a  most  eloquent  appeal  in  favour  of  human  ver- 
satility.   Disposition,  habit,  the  want  of  knowledge,  he 
conquered  by  moral  determination.    As  Napoleon  cut 
the  Simplon  through  the  rocks  and  snow  of  the  Alps, 
Alfieri  shaped  his  lonely  way  to  the  temple  of  fame  over 
mountains  of  difficulty  and  amid  the  barren  wastes  of 
ignorance.    This  strength  of  purpose  did  not  appear  in 
his  childhood  except  in  one  or  two  instances  of  juvenile 
obstinacy,  by  no  means  rare  at  that  age.    Another  char- 
acteristic, perhaps  inseparable  from  great  decision,  was 
much  more  manifest.    From  his  earliest  years  it  is  evi- 
dent he  felt  profoundly.    Mortification  of  any  kind  sank 
deeply  into  his  soul.    The  novices  who  officiated  at 
church  won  his  young  affections,  though  he  only  beheld 
them  in  attendance  at  the  altar.    In  that  spontaneous  and 
almost  ideal  love,  we  recognise  the  germs  of  the  passion 
that  in  after  life  fired  his  heart.    There  is  a  vividness  in 
his  reminiscences  of  infancy  which  proves  that  his  very 
earliest  experience  was  intense. 

Alfieri  complains  that  he  was  born  in  an  amphibious 
country.  And  certainly  there  is  no  section  of  Italy 
where  the  national  characteristics  are  more  invaded  than 


ALFIERI. 


113 


Piedmont.  The  soil  is  Italian,  the  government  Austri- 
an, the  language  of  society  French.  Hence  manners, 
opinions,  customs,  and  much  of  the  aspect  of  the  capital, 
present  to  the  stranger  an  incongruous  mixture.  The 
anomalous  influences  of  his  birth-place  seem  to  have  ex- 
tended to  his  destiny.  The  picture  he  has  left  of  what 
was  called  his  education,  is  one  of  the  most  alarming 
commentaries  upon  a  despotic  government  that  ever  was 
written.  Pedantry  instead  of  truth,  verbal  memory 
instead  of  ideas,  antiquated  Latin  instead  of  his  native 
literature,  and  formal  dogmas  instead  of  interesting  facts, 
were  the  fruit  of  his  academic  course.  To  this  evil  is  to 
be  added  that  of  absence  from  all  maternal  or  domestic 
influences  at  an  infantile  age,  the  tyranny  of  a  dissipated 
valet,  of  a  powerful,  stupid  fellow-student  and  injudicious 
professors,  ill  health,  unjust  restraint  and  ill-chosen  com- 
panions. During  these  perverted  years,  how  slept  that 
energetic  mind !  Occasionally  music,  some  verses  of 
Metastasio  or  of  Ariosto  read  by  stealth,  an  hour  of  tears 
with  his  sister  at  the  convent  grate,  a  ride  into  the  envi- 
rons, or  a  holiday  dinner  with  an  uncle — breaks  in  like 
a  stray  gleam  of  sunshine  upon  the  wasting  and  monot- 
onous life  of  the  neglected  boy.  But  as  a  whole,  the 
dawn  of  his  being,  to  a  reflective  mind,  is  inexpressibly 
sad.  Rich  and  nobly  born,  yet  confined  to  a  useless  and 
depressing  routine,  with  his  wild  Piedmontese  blood,  his 
thirsting  heart,  his  despairing  temperament — not  a  health- 
ful conviction,  not  a  lofty  hope,  not  an  ennobling  aim 
grew  up  in  the  rich  soil  of  that  young  soul — thus  train- 
ing under  royal  authority.  And  yet  but  a  short  distance 
without  those  college  walls  rise  in  freedom  and  majesty 
the  snow-covered  mountains,  upon  which  the  rosy  sun- 
light lingers,  like  the  altars  of  liberty  warmed  by  the 
smile  of  heaven.  If  any  agency  redeemed  and  preserved 
the  unconscious  youth  of  Alfieri,  it  was  that  of  Nature ; 
7* 


114 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE  POETS. 


and  we  are  relieved  to  follow  him,  unprepared  as  he  was, 
on  the  first  wild  journey  of  his  youth.  It  is  melancholy 
to  think  of  a  young  Italian  traversing  his  country  for  the 
first  time,  with  no  sense  of  its  peculiar  associations. 
Yet  thus  was  it  with  Alfieri  in  his  early  wanderings.  He 
loved  indeed  the  excitement  of  locomotion ;  but  the  most 
attractive  localities  soon  wearied  him.  He  passed  with 
inattentive  soul  the  shrine  of  genius.  He  gazed  list- 
lessly upon  the  trophies  of  art.  He  sadly  confesses  that 
he  brought  nothing  home  from  his  journeyings  but  a  fit 
of  illness.  Still  the  mere  variety  of  such  a  life  had  be- 
come necessary. 

Again  and  again  he  renewed  his  travels  until  he  had 
seen,  in  a  rapid  and  cursory  manner,  nearly  every  coun- 
try in  Europe.  It  is  interesting  to  observe,  during  these 
years  of  dissipation,  how,  ever  and  anon,  his  better  na- 
ture became  active.  The  sight  of  the  sea,  a  solitary  ride 
in  the  environs  of  Rome,  some  of  the  wonderful  as- 
pects of  nature  in  the  North,  so  excited  his  imagination 
that  he  would  have  "  wreaked  upon  expression"  his  emo- 
tions but  for  the  want  of  adequate  language  and  skill. 
He  wept  in  an  ecstacy  of  admiration  over  the  pages  of 
Plutarch,  and  thought  beside  the  tomb  of  Michael  Angelo 
how  grand  it  was  to  leave  an  example  to  posterity.  It  is 
obvious,  indeed,  that  during  a  youth,  seemingly  wholly 
given  to  the  reckless  pursuit  of  pleasure,  Alfieri  was  al- 
ways a  thinker.  Perhaps  meditative  power  is  the  crown- 
ing distinction  of  gifted  minds.  There  is  certainly  an  order 
of  men  who  have  delighted  the  world  with  their  genius, 
having  but  little  claim  to  the  name  of  students,  as  that 
term  is  usually  employed.  Ashamed  as  was  the  young 
dramatist  of  his  meagre  attainments,  the  very  dissatisfac- 
tion which  he  vainly  strove  to  annihilate  by  rapid  pil- 
grimages indicates  a  mind  too  self-cognizant  to  remain 
long  contented  with  inactivity.    In  reverting  to  this  epoch 


ALFIERI. 


115 


oF  his  life,  Alfieri  gives  us  a  truly  painful  insight  into  the 
restlessness  of  a  forlorn  spirit.  Neither  the  freshness  of 
his  years,  the  liberty  he  enjoyed  to  roam  where  he  liked, 
nor  his  singular  susceptibility  to  many  of  the  enjoyments 
of  life,  could  afford  an  antidote  to  this  wretched  state  of 
feeling.  He  subsequently  learned  that  he  could  not  even 
enjoy  peace,  far  less  happiness,  without  a  noble  occupa- 
tion for  his  mind  and  a  congenial  object  for  his  heart. 
Upon  the  first  of  these  salutary  principles  he  soon  be- 
gan to  act.  In  one  of  his  visits  at  home,  sitting  by  the 
sick-bed  of  his  mistress,  in  a  listless  moment,  he  seized  a 
pen  to  cover  some  sheets  of  paper  by  way  of  pastime. 
Upon  the  walls  of  the  adjoining  apartment  were  several 
pictures  representing  scenes  in  the  history  of  Antony 
and  Cleopatra.  His  thoughts  were  naturally  drawn  to 
this  subje'ct,  and  he  sketched  a  few  dialogues  illustrative 
of  the  story.  Exceedingly  defective  in  point  of  lan- 
guage and  style,  they  were  not  deficient  in  a  certain 
spirit  that  suggested  a  more  than  ordinary  ability.  This 
careless  effort  was  thrust  under  the  sofa-cushion  and  soon 
forgotten.  It  was,  however,  the  first  feeble  presage  of 
a  better  experience.  The  intellect  once  aroused  craved 
labour  as  its  appropriate  sphere,  and  in  a  short  time  Al- 
fieri deliberately  formed  the  resolutions  which  resulted  in 
a  long  career  of  successful  mental  toil.  His  first  efforts 
were,  of  course,  very  desultory,  and  his  plans  were  per- 
fected only  by  degrees.  But  the  satisfaction  derived  from 
regular  employment,  the  encouraging  and  judicious  coun- 
sel of  intelligent  friends,  and  especially  the  incitement  of 
ambition,  gradually  induced  him  to  bring  into  full  exer- 
cise his  singular  strength  of  will.  The  first  step  was  to 
break  off  an  ignoble  liason,  and  conquer  at  once  habits 
of  conviviality  and  idleness.  As  Prince  Henry,  to  the 
astonishment  of  his  old  friend  Jack,  suddenly  threw  off 
the  trammels  of  pleasure  upon  coming  to  the  throne,  so 


116 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Alfieri,  when  he  regained  the  kingdom  of  his  mind,  im- 
mediately cast  aside  all  dalliance  with  idleness  and  folly. 
Then  he  commenced,  like  a  very  school-boy,  the  study  of 
grammar,  perused  and  reperused  the  Italian  poets,  went 
to  Florence  that  he  might  learn  even  to  think  in  Tuscan, 
and  ordered  himself  to  be  tied  in  a  chair  to  avoid  yield- 
ing to  external  attraction  that  might  draw  him  from  his 
books,  or  encroach  upon  his  hours  of  study.  Once  com- 
menced, the  work  of  self-conquest  went  bravely  on,  and 
thenceforth  Alfieri,  with  only  occasional  intermissions, 
was  a  studious  and  devoted  man.  His  darling  object  was 
glory.  He  earnestly  desired  to  impress  his  age,  or  at 
least  win  the  respect  of  posterity,  to  immortalize  his  sen- 
timents and  accomplish  something  worthy  of  renown. 
He  bent  all  his  energies  to  the  task  and  succeeded. 

Among  the  peculiarities  of  Alfieri  were  his  inveterate 
dislike  of  the  French  and  his  fondness  of  horses.  Both 
the  prejudice  and  the  partiality  are  characteristic.  The 
former  originated  in  his  acquaintance  with  a  Parisian 
dancing-master  at  the  Turin  Academy.  The  levity  of 
this  personage,  whose  art  he  thoroughly  hated,  gave  him 
an  unprepossessing  idea  of  the  nation,  which  their  inva- 
sion of  Italy  was  but  ill-calculated  to  remove.  Paris  was 
never  congenial  to  the  poet,  and  his  residence  there  at  the 
outbreak  of  the  revolution,  the  insults  he  received  from  a 
mob  on  leaving  the  gate,  as  well  as  the  reserve  and 
thoughtfulness  of  his  nature,  confirmed  his  juvenile 
antipathy.  In  many  points  Alfieri's  character  assimila- 
ted vvith  the  English.  He  became  early  partial  to  their 
country  and  government,  and  ardently  sympathised  in 
their  taste  for  fine  steeds.  In  truth  this  passion  divided 
his  regards  with' love  and  tragedy-writing.  Even  in  boy- 
hood he  was  chiefly  extravagant  in  his  horses.  Continu- 
ally purchasing  the  finest  specimens  of  this  noble  animal, 
taking  the  greatest  pride  in  displaying  their  graces  and 


ALFIERi. 


117 


exercising  the  most  scrupulous  care  of  them,  it  was  one 
of  his  chief  pleasures  to  ride  on  horseback  and  travel 
with  a  fine  cavalcade.  At  one  time,  with  no  small  diffi- 
culty and  at  a  great  risk,  he  transported  fourteen  splendid 
horses  from  England.  His  account  of  their  passage  of 
the  Alps  is  given  with  great  gout.  Visions  of  arching 
necks  and  beautiful  evolutions  haunted  his  dreams,  and 
his  directions  for  the  training  of  his  favourites,  when  ab- 
sent, are  written  with  all  the  precision  and  interest  of  an 
enthusiast. 

There  is  a  remarkable  blending  of  energy  and  weak- 
ness, stern  opinion  and  tender  feeling,  caprice  and  manli- 
ness, in  the  character  of  Alfieri.  He  had  the  resolution 
to  commence  and  successfully  prosecute  the  study  of 
Greek,  after  the  age  of  forty ;  but  not  self-command 
enough  to  prevent  his  striking  a  favourite  servant  upon  the 
slightest  provocation,  or  hurling  a  book  that  displeased 
him  out  of  the  window.  He  was  restless  but  firm  in  his 
attachments,  wished  ever  to  be  with  the  few  he  loved, 
but  in  different  places.  He  could  not  enjoy  a  medium  in 
any  thing.  He  declares  that  his  head  and  heart  were 
constantly  at  war.  Alternately  silent  and  loquacious,  a 
laborious  and  abstemious  student  and  a  self-indulgent 
and  reckless  traveller,  always  at  extremes,  but  ever  noble 
in  his  aspirations,  and  like  Brutus  chiefly  anxious  to 
respect  himself.  Above  adulation,  the  earnest  advocate 
of  literary  and  civil  freedom,  and  yet  keeping  aloof  from 
society  and  jealous  of  the  least  encroachment  upon  his 
personal  views  and  purposes ;  devoted  where  his  heart 
was  engaged  ;  a  hater  of  kings,  but  not  a  lover  of  men, 
among  whom  he  had  indeed  widely  wandered,  but  with 
whom  he  never  intimately  mingled.  He  deeply  felt  the 
political  degradation  of  his  native  land,  and  set  a  remark- 
able example  of  personal  independence  amid  despotic  in- 
fluences.   He  demonstrated  how  free  a  true  man  might 


118 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


live  among  slaves.  He  aspired  to  be  the  poet  of  liberty, 
the  prophet  of  a  new  era,  the  patriot  who  lived  and  wrote 
against  his  country's  oppression,  when  other  warfare  was 
vain. 

Absolute  and  uncompromising  hatred  of  tyranny  was 
one  of  the  strongest  feelings  of  his  soul.  In  his  sonnet 
on  his  own  portrait,  instead  of  comparing  his  complexion 
with  snow  or  a  lily,  after  the  manner  of  most  bards,  he 
prefers  the  phrase,  "  pallido  come  un  re  sul  trono"  pale 
as  a  king  on  his  throne.  And  yet  the  sentiment  did  not 
spring  from  love  of  equality  or  respect  for  man.  Alfieri 
was  anything  but  a  humanitarian.  Exclusive  in  his 
attachments,  full  of  contempt  for  the  passive  spirit  that 
prevailed  in  Italy,  while  he  thoroughly  despised  all  the 
badges  and  supports  of  royalty,  he  was  a  species  of  intel- 
lectual aristocrat.  He  rejoiced  that  he  was  born  a  noble- 
man, chiefly  that  he  might  inveigh  against  rank  without 
having  his  motives  impugned.  He  expatriated  himself 
rather  than  be  subject  to  the  little  court  of  Turin  ;  and 
transferred  his  estate  to  a  sister  that  all  claims  upon  his 
allegiance  might  cease.  He  would  not  be  introduced  to 
Metastasio  at  Vienna,  because  he  happened  to  see  him 
bend  the  knee  to  Maria  Theresa.  He  boasts  that  when 
the  French  occupied  Florence,  he  remained  so  perfectly 
secluded  in  a  neighbouring  villa  that  he  was  not  contam- 
inated by  a  single  Gallic  sound  or  sight;  and  when  the 
commanding  general  sought  to  visit  him,  he  proudly  in- 
formed him  that  Victor  Alfieri  was  too  old  to  make  new 
acquaintances.  His  loftiness  of  spirit  was  indomitable. 
No  punishment  in  childhood  was  so  severe  as  being  taken 
to  mass  with  a  small  net  on  his  head.  He  would  not 
demand  his  books  left  behind  in  Paris  lest  it  should  be 
construed  into  a  recognition  of  Napoleon's  authority. 
He  left  many  works  in  manuscript,  rather  than  submit 
them  to  the  censors  before  publication.    He  refused  the 


ALFIE  RI. 


119 


academic  honours  proffered  by  his  native  city,  and  tells 
us  of  the  marble  calmness  of  visage  he  preserved  before 
others,  when  his  heart  was  torn  by  conflicting  passions. 
His  stern  independence  was,  however  softened  by  gentler 
sentiments.  At  school  he  carefully  concealed  his  superi- 
or dresses  from  the  eyes  of  his  less  fortunate  companions, 
and  his  best  sympathies  were  excited  for  the  King  of  Sar- 
dinia, whom  he  so  contemned  at  home,  when  he  saw  him 
dethroned  and  in  exile.  He  could  never  sell  anything. 
Even  when  forced  to  part  with  his  horses  in  travelling, 
he  gave  them  to  his  banker  or  some  casual  acquaintance. 
Friendship  and  love  were  necessities  of  his  being. 
Without  their  cheering  and  sustaining  influences,  he 
could  not  apply  his  mind  with  any  success ;  and  when 
deprived  for  a  time  of  such  genial  companionship,  his 
distress  was  so  great  that  he  resorted  at  once  to  his  old 
solace — constant  change  of  scene.  In  early  life  his 
attachments  were  variable.  He  was  involved  in  a  duel  in 
London  on  account  of  an  amour,  and  was  ever  flying  from 
one  place  to  another  on  the  wings  of  passion.  But  as 
his  intellectual  course  became  settled,  a  similar  perma- 
nency seemed  to  regulate  his  affections.  The  light  hair 
and  dark  eyes  of  the  countess  of  Albany  and  especially 
her  superior  mind  and  high  tone  of  feeling  fixed  the  love 
of  Alfieri  for  twenty-five  years,  while  Gori  Gandinelli  of 
Sienna,  and  the  Abbe  di  Caluso  of  Turin,  were  his  firm 
and  congenial  friends,  from  whom  death  alone  divided 
him. 

Alfieri's  tragedies  strongly  reflect  his  character.  The 
personages  are  few  and  generally  animated  by  single  pas- 
sions. The  language  is  terse,  direct  and  emphatic,  and 
the  whole  style  formal  and  impassioned.  There  is  scarce- 
ly any  attempt  at  delicate  colouring.  All  is  defined  and 
abrupt.  His  method  seems  to  have  been  to  dwell  upon  a 
theme  until  it  warmed  his  fancy,  boldly  sketch  its  con 


120 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


ception,  and  then  versify  and  elaborate  it.  "We  find 
scarcely  any  of  that  marvellous  and  delicate  insight  into 
human  nature,  those  refined  shades  of  character,  which 
distinguish  Shakspere.  Isolated  sentiments  are  forcibly 
portrayed — certain  states  of  mind  powerfully  delineated, 
but  the  creations  are  rather  in  outline  or  relievo  than  nat- 
urally coloured  or  varied  with  the  detail  of  life.  Stern 
resolves  and  intense  feeling  find  sententious  and  striking 
expression  in  the  mouths  of  his  heroes,  but  a  certain 
phase  rather  than  the  whole  sphere  of  their  natures  is 
presented.  Impressive  and  elegant  often  to  a  most  attrac- 
tive degree  is  the  dialogue  ;  but  little  of  the  living  inter- 
est is  imparted  which  characterizes  the  best  English  tra- 
gedies. "  If,"  says  a  distinguished  critic,  "  the  muse  of 
Metastasio  is  a  love-sick  nymph,  the  muse  of  Alfieri  is 
an  Amazon.  He  gave  her  a  Spartan  education ;  he 
aimed  at  being  the  Cato  of  the  theatre."  Much  of  Ital- 
ian modern  poetry  is  so  enervating  in  its  tone  as  to  pos- 
sess no  attraction  for  a  Saxon  mind.  Alfieri  introduced  a 
new  agency  in  this  respect.  No  small  portion  of  his 
tragedies  is  imbued  with  his  own  consciousness.  Not 
only  do  they  breathe  dire  anathemas  against  Papal  usur- 
pation and  popular  submission,  but  there  is  a  certain 
elevating  energy,  a  strength  and  firmness  of  manner  in 
the  very  style,  that  braces  though  it  may  sometimes 
chill  the  heart.  Herein  has  the  proud  tragedian  convey- 
ed his  best  lesson.  This  hard  moulding  of  his  concep- 
tions echoes  and  reflects  the  principles  upon  which  he 
lived.  His  life  and  tragedies  are  the  scripture  of  the  no- 
bler minds  among  the  youth  of  Italy.  From  them  they 
fortify  their  souls  against  the  enslaving  tendencies  of  des- 
potism ;  and  learn  to  aim  at  independence  of  feeling  and 
an  uncompromising  course  of  life.  Such  admirers  ot 
Alfieri  honour  him  next  to  Dante.  They  gaze  with  pro- 
found interest  on  his  portrait  in  the  Florence  gallery  and 


A  L  F  I  E  R  I  . 


121 


the  house  he  so  long  occupied  on  the  Lung  'Arno.  They 
walk  reverently  through  the  street  which  bears  his  name 
at  Turin,  and  visit  his  tomb  in  Santa  Croce,  adorned  by 

the  chisel  of  Canova,  as  the  shrine  of  liberty  as  well  as 

of  genius. 


CRABBE. 


About  the  period  of  the  Gordon  riots,  so  vividly 
described  in  Barnaby  Rudge,  a  young  man  might  have 
been  observed,  at  the  first  glimmer  of  day,  restlessly 
pacing  to  and  fro  on  Westminster  Bridge.  Thus  George 
Crabbe  passed  the  night  succeeding  his  application  to 
Burke.  It  was  the  last  of  several  appeals  he  had  made 
to  the  distinguished  men  of  the  day,  for  relief  from  the 
inroads  of  poverty  and  encouragement  in  his  devotion  to 
the  muse  He  felt,  during  those  wearisome  hours,  that 
the  crisis  of  his  fate  had  arrived.  Bravely  for  many 
months  he  had  struggled  on  in  the  perilous  career  of  a 
literary  adventurer.  Like  so  many  men  of  genius  then 
"  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought,"  he  had  come  to  Lon- 
don with  a  stock  of  poems  and  a  manly  heart,  trusting  to 
find  his  way,  at  length,  in  that  vast  metropolis,  if  not  to 
honourable  distinction,  at  least  to  usefulness  and  compe- 
tence. He  had  vibrated  from  the  door  of  the  wealthy  to 
the  bookseller's  counter,  from  his  humble  lodgings  to  the 
pawnbroker's  shop,  and  hitherto  without  success.  His 
spirits  were  elevated  and  soothed,  at  this  critical  season, 
by  the  love  of  one  who  became  the  genial  companion  of 
his  days.  "  My  heart,"  says  one  of  his  letters,  "  is  hum- 
bled to  all  but  villany,  and  I  would  live,  if  honestly,  in 
any  situation.  *  *  Hope,  vanity,  and  the  muse  will 
certainly  contribute  something  towards  a  light  heart ;  but 
love  and  the  god  of  love  can  only  throw  a  beam  of  glad- 


CRABBE. 


123 


ness  on  a  heavy  one."  Happily  his  claims  were  recog- 
nised and  his  merits  appreciated  by  Burke,  and  from  his 
first  interview  with  that  generous  man  his  prosperity 
dates.  The  early  life  of  Crabbe  was  passed  chiefly  at  a 
fishing  village  on  the  coast  of  Suffolk.  Nature  there 
was  rude  and  sterile,  his  fellow  beings  uncultivated  and 
almost  savage,  and  their  lives  given  to  cheerless  toil. 
Yet  sometimes  a  boat's  shadow  on  the  sand  or  a  fierce 
smuggler  basking  in  the  sun,  would  suggest  images 
worthy  of  Salvator's  pencil.  If  there  was  in  that  seclu- 
ded hamlet  less  restraint  upon  human  passion,  its  exhibi- 
tion was  often  more  affecting  and  suggestive.  If  fertile 
grace  was  wanting  in  the  scenery,  there  was  something 
grand  in  its  desolation.  It  is  not  surprising  that  many 
years  after  his  native  spot  had  been  abandoned, —  in  the 
bosom  of  his  family,  on  a  beautiful  inland  domain, 
Crabbe  felt  one  summer  day,  such  an  irrepressible  desire 
to  behold  the  sea,  that  he  suddenly  mounted  his  horse 
and  rode  forty  miles  to  the  nearest  coast.  A  harsh  father 
and  a  kind  mother,  menial  labour  and  stolen  hours  of  de- 
sultory reading,  the  companionship  of  rough  mariners 
and  the  love  of  a  charming  girl,  occasional  rhyming  and 
long,  solitary  walks,  an  apprenticeship  to  a  village  Galen, 
and  the  thousand  dreams  that  haunt  the  young  and  san- 
guine, divided  the  poet's  hours.  His  patience,  industry 
and  cheerful  temper  rendered  him  no  unworthy  aspirant 
for  the  world's  favour ;  and  when  fortune  smiled  upon 
him  in  the  form  of  his  gifted  benefactor,  the  same  regu- 
lated habits  and  bland  philosophy  that  had  sustained  his 
baffled  youth,  led  him  calmly  to  enjoy  domestic  peace 
and  poetical  success.  His  career  in  the  church  was 
marked  by  active  benevolence  and  a  happy  influence.  It 
was  his  singular  lot,  after  the  lapse  of  twenty  years 
passed  in  retirement,  to  re-appear  both  as  an  author  and 
in  the  social  circles  of  London.    At  home  his  books  and 


124 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


children  agreeably  occupied  the  time  which  could  be  spared 
from  professional  duty.  He  enjoyed  the  warm  regard  of 
some  of  the  choicest  spirits  of  the  day.  When  his  vari- 
ous publications  were  finally  revised  and  collected,  Mur- 
ray gave  him  three  thousand  pounds  for  the  copyright. 
In  his  affections  he  was  singularly  blessed,  and  passed 
away  full  of  years  and  honour. 

Crabbe  was  no  stoic.  He  could  not  conceal  his  feel- 
ings, and  was  a  novel  reader  all  his  life.  He  had  suffer- 
ed enough  to  teach  him  to  feel  for  others.  There  was  a 
rare  and  winning  simplicity  in  his  manners.  He  was 
remarkably  unambitious  for  a  son  of  the  muses  ;  and 
sought  mental  delight  according  to  his  instincts  rather 
than  from  prescribed  rules.  Manly  and  independent, 
with  an  active  and  exuberant  mind,  his  character  won 
him  as  many  suffrages  as  his  verse.  His  attachments, 
we  are  lold,  knew  no  decline  and  his  heart  seemed  to 
mellow  rather  than  grow  frigid,  with  the  lapse  of  time. 
We  discover,  in  his  life  and  writings,  a  kind  of  Indian 
summer  benignly  invading  the  winter  of  age.  Such  was 
Crabbe  as  a  man.  His  fame,  as  a  poet,  is  owing  in  some 
degree  to  the  time  of  his  appearance.  It  was  his  fortune 
to  come  forward  during  one  of  those  lapses  in  the  visits 
of  the  muse  which  invariably  insure  her  a  warmer 
welcome.  Perhaps  on  this  very  account  his  merits  have 
been  somewhat  exaggerated  and  vaguely  defined, — at 
least  by  those  whose  early  taste  was  permanently  influ- 
enced by  his  genius. 

The  kind  of  insight  that  distinguishes  a  man  depends 
upon  his  taste  and  associations.  A  painter  will  be  struck 
with  an  effect  of  light  and  shade,  the  contour  of  a  head, 
or  the  grouping  of  a  knot  of  gossips,  that  an  engineer 
passes  unnoticed.  In  visiting  some  Roman  remains,  I 
was  amused  at  the  delight  with  which  an  engraver  sur- 
veyed the  inscriptions,  and  remarked  upon  the  cutting  of 


CRAB  BE. 


125 


♦re  letters.  While  one  of  a  party  of  travellers  is  absorb- 
ed in  the  appearance  of  the  crops,  another  indulges  a 
metaphysical  turn  by  analyzing  the  characters  of  his 
companions,  and  a  third  is  lost  in  the  beauty  of  the  land- 
scape. We  recognise  a  similar  diversity  among  the 
Doets.  Some  grand  truth  relating  to  human  nature,  ex- 
cites the  muse  of  Shakspere.  He  delights  to  announce 
that 

^  We  are  such  stuff 

As  dreams  are  made  of ;  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep'. 

The  bards  of  the  visible  world,  who  love  to  designate 
its  every  feature,  evince  their  observation  by  a  happy 
term  or  most  apt  allusion,  as  when  Bryant  calls  the  hills 
"  rock-ribbed,"  and  the  ocean  a  "  gray  and  melancholy 
waste."  Crabbe  owes  his  popularity  both  to  the  sphere 
and  quality  of  his  observation.  In  these,  almost  exclu- 
sively, consists  his  originality.  The  form  of  his  verse, 
the  tone  of  his  sentiment,  and  the  play  of  his  fancy,  are, 
by  no  means,  remarkable.  He  interests  us  from  the  com- 
paratively unhackneyed  field  he  selected,  and  the  pecu- 
liar manner  in  which  he  unfolds  its  treasures.  He  seized 
upon  characters  and  events  before  thought  unworthy  of 
the  minstrel.  He  turned,  in  a  great  measure,  from  the 
grand  and  elegant  materials  of  poetry,  and  sought  his 
themes  amid  the  common-place  and  the  vulgar.  Nor 
was  he  aided  in  this  course  by  any  elevated  theory  of  his 
own,  like  that  of  Wordsworth.  He  carried  no  magic 
torch  into  the  dark  labyrinths  he  explored,  but  was  satis?- 
fled  to  open  them  to  the  light  of  day.  Indeed,  Crabbe 
seems  to  have  reversed  all  the  ordinary  principles  of  the 
art.  His  effects  arise  rather  from  sterility  than  luxuri- 
ance. His  success  seems  the  result  rather  of  a  matter- 
of-fact  than  an  illusive  process.  The  oft-quoted  question 
of  the  mathematician  to  the  bard — "  what  does  it  all 
8 


126 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


prove?"  Crabbe  often  literally  answers;  and  to  tMs 
trait  we  cannot  but  refer  the  admiration  in  which  mis 
writer  was  held  by  Johnson,  Gifford,  and  Jeffrey.  These 
critics  often  failed  to  appreciate  the  more  exalted  and 
delicate  displays  of  modern  poetry ;  but  in  Crabbe  there 
was  a  pointed  sense  and  tangible  meaning  that  harmo- 
nized with  their  perceptions.  Of  poets  in  general  ne 
are  accustomed  to  say,  that  they  weave  imaginary  charms 
around  reality  ;  and,  like  the  wave  that  sparkles  above  a 
wreck,  or  the  flowery  turf  that  conceals  a  sepulchre,  in- 
terpose a  rosy  veil  to  beguile  us  from  pain.  But  Crabbe 
often  labours  to  strip  life  of  its  bright  dreams,  and  portrays, 
with  as  keen  a  relish,  the  anatomical  frame  as  the  round 
and  blooming  flesh.  He  bears  us  not  away  from  the  lim- 
its of  the  present  by  the  comprehensive  views  he  presents ; 
but,  on  the  contrary,  is  continually  fixing  our  attention 
upon  the  minute  details  of  existence,  and  the  minor 
shades  of  experience.  He  seeks  not  to  keep  out  of  sight 
the  meaner  aspects  of  life,  or  relieve,  with  the  glow  of 
imagination,  the  dark  traits  of  the  actual.  With  a  bold  and 
industrious  scrutiny  he  plunges  into  the  gloomy  particu- 
lars of  human  wretchedness  ;  and,  like  some  of  the  Dutch 
limners,  engages  our  attention,  not  by  the  unearthly  gra- 
ces, but  the  appalling  truthfulness  of  his  pictures.  Un- 
like Goldsmith,  instead  of  casting  a  halo  of  romance 
around  rustic  life,  he  elaborately  exposes  its  discomforts. 
He  sometimes,  indeed,  paints  the  enchantments  of  love, 
but  often  only  to  contrast  them  with  the  worst  trials  of 
matrimony  ;  and  woman's  beauty  is  frequently  described 
with  zest  in  his  pages,  only  to  afford  occasion  to  dwell 
upon  its  decay. 

It  is  evident,  that  to  such  a  writer  of  verse  many  of 
the  loftier  and  finer  elements  of  the  poet  were  wanting. 
The  noble  point,  in  a  mind  of  this  order,  is  integrity. 
The  redeeming  sentiment  in  Crabbe's  nature  was  honesty, 


C  R  ABBE. 


127 


in  its  broadest  and  most  efficient  sense.  What  he  saw 
he  faithfully  told.  The  pictures,  clearly  displayed  to  his 
mind,  he  copied  to  the  life.  He  carried  into  verse  a  kind 
of  dauntless  simplicity,  an  almost  Puritan  loyalty  to  his 
convictions.  He  appears  like  one  thoroughly  determined 
to  tell  the  homely  truth  in  rhyme.  Poetry  has  been 
called  the  "  flower  of  experience."  If  we  adopt  this  de- 
finition literally,  Crabbe  has  small  claims  to  the  name  of 
poet.  He  searched  not  so  much  for  the  meek  violet  and 
the  blushing  rose,  as  the  weeds  and  briars  that  skirt  the 
path  of  human  destiny.  Where,  then,  it  may  be  asked, 
is  his  attraction  ?  The  picturesque  and  the  affecting  do 
not,  as  he  has  demonstrated,  exist  only  in  alliance  with 
beauty.  The  tangled  brake  may  win  the  eye,  in  certain 
moods,  as  strongly  as  the  garden  ;  and  a  desolate  moor  is 
often  more  impressive  than  a  verdant  hill-side.  So  rich 
and  mysterious  a  thing  is  the  human  heart,  so  fearfully 
interesting  is  life,  that  there  is  a  profound  meaning  in  its 
mere  elements.  When  these  are  laid  bare,  there  is  room 
for  conjecture  and  discovery.  We  approach  the  revela- 
tion as  we  would  the  fathomless  caves  of  the  sea,  if  they 
were  opened  to  our  gaze.  Some  of  Salvator's  land- 
scapes, consisting  mainly  of  a  ship's  hulk  and  a  lonely 
strand,  are  more  interesting  than  a  combination  of 
meadow,  forest,  and  temples,  by  an  inferior  hand;  and, 
on  the  same  principle,  one  of  Crabbe's  free  and  true 
sketches  is  better  than  the  timid  composition  of  a  more 
refined  writer.  Byron  calls  him  "  Nature's  sternest 
painter,  yet  the  best ;"  and  he  has  been  well  styled  by 
another,  the  Hogarth  of  verse.  There  is  something  that 
excites  our  veneration  in  reality,  whether  in  character  or 
literature.  "  To  the  poet,"  says  Carlyle,  "  we  say  first 
of  all,  see"  And  just  so  far  as  Crabbe  saw,  (where  the 
object  admits,)  he  is  poetical.  There  is  a  vast  range 
which  he  not  only  failed  to  explore,  but  did  not  even  ap- 


128 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


proach.  There  is  a  world  of  delicate  feeling,  and  exalted 
idealism  of  which  he  seems  to  have  been  almost  uncon- 
scious. Of  the  deeper  sympathies  it  may  be  questioned 
if  he  had  any  real  experience.  And  yet  we  are  to  re- 
cognise in  him  no  ordinary  element  of  poetry — that  in- 
sight which  enabled  him  to  perceive  and  to  depict  in  so 
graphic  a  style,  particular  phases  of  life.  We  trace,  too, 
in  his  writings  a  rare  appreciation  of  many  characteris- 
tics of  our  nature.  He  found  these  among  the  ignorant, 
where  passion  is  poorly  disguised,  He  acted  as  an  in- 
terpreter between  those  whom  refinement  and  social  cul- 
tivation widely  separated.  He  did  much  to  diminish  the 
force  of  the  proverb,  that  "  one  half  the  world  know  not 
how  the  other  half  live ;"  and  to  direct  attention  to  the 
actual  world  and  the  passing  hour,  as  fraught  with  an 
import  and  an  interest,  which  habit  alone  prevents  us 
from  discovering. 

Crabbe  was  rather  a  man  of  science  than  an  enthusi- 
ast. He  looked  upon  nature  with  minute  curiosity 
oftener  than  with  vague  delight.  This  is  indicated  by 
many  of  his  descriptions,  which  are  almost  as  special  as 
the  reports  of  a  natural  historian.  He  calls  sea-nettles 
"  living  jellies,"  and  speaks  of  kelp  as  floating  on  "  blad- 
dery beads."  Like  Friar  Lawrence,  too,  he  thought  that 
"  rnuckle  is  the  power  and  grace  that  lies  in  herbs,  plants, 
stones,  and  their  true  qualities."  Through  life  he  was 
an  assiduous  collector  of  botanical  and  geological  speci- 
mens. His  partiality  for  detail  is  exhibited  in  many  ot 
his  allusions  to  the  sea-side ;  and  they  afford  a  remarka- 
ble contrast  to  the  enlarged  and  undefined  associations, 
which  the  same  scene  awakened  in  the  mind  of  Byron. 
Crabbe  loved  nature,  but  it  was  in  a  very  intelligent  and 
unimpassioned  way.  When  Lockhart  took  him  to  Salis- 
bury Crags,  he  was  interested  by  their  strata  far  more 
than  the  prospect  they  afforded.    How  light  a  sway 


CRABBE. 


129 


music  held  over  him,  may  be  realized  from  the  fact  that 
he  once  wrote  the  greater  part  of  a  poem  in  a  London 
concert-room,  to  keep  himself  awake.  The  tone  of  his 
mind  is  revealed  by  the  manner  in  which  he  wooed  the 
muse.  From  his  own  artless  letters  we  cannot  but  dis- 
cover that  much  of  his  verse  was  produced  by  a  mechan- 
ical process.  His  best  metaphors,  he  tells  us,  were  in- 
serted after  the  tale  itself  was  completed.  He  confesses 
his  surprise  that,  in  two  or  three  instances,  he  was  much 
affected  by  what  he  wrote,  which  is  proof  enough  of  the 
uninspired  spirit  in  which  many  of  his  compositions 
were  conceived.  "  I  rhyme  at  Hampstead  with  a  great 
deal  of  facility,"  says  one  of  his  letters.  Accordingly 
his  writings  fall  much  below  the  works  "  produced  too 
slowly  ever  to  decay."  In  fact,  with  all  his  peculiar 
merits,  Crabbe  was  often  a  mere  rhymer,  and  the  culti- 
vated lover  of  poetry,  who  feels  a  delicate  reverence  for 
its  more  perfect  models,  will  find  many  of  his  volumin- 
ous heroics  unimpressive  and  tedious.  But  interwoven 
with  these,  is  many  a  picture  of  human  misery,  many  a 
display  of  coarse  passion  and  unmitigated  grief,  of  delu- 
sive joy  and  haggard  want,  of  vulgar  selfishness  and 
moral  truth,  that  awaken  sympathy  even  to  pain,  and  win 
admiration  for  the  masterly  execution  of  the  artist. 
Much  of  the  poetry  of  Crabbe,  however,  is  of  such  a 
character  that  we  can  conceive  of  its  being  written  in 
almost  any  quantity.  He  began  to  write  not  so  much 
from  impulse  alone,  as  motives  of  self-improvement  and 
interest.  When  his  situation  was  comfortable,  he  ceased 
versifying  for  a  long  interval,  and  resumed  the  occupa- 
tion because  he  was  encouraged  to  do  so  by  the  support 
of  the  public.  Only  occasionally,  and  in  particular 
respects,  does  he  excite  wonder.  The  form  and  spirit  of 
his  works  are  seldom  exalted  above  ordinary  associations. 
Hence  they  are  more  easily  imitated,  and  in  the  "  Re- 


130  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

jected  Addresses,"  one  of  the  closest  parodies  is  that  of 
Crabbe.  The  department  he  originally  chose  was  almost 
uninvaded,  and  he  was  singularly  fitted  to  occupy  it  with 
success.  In  addition  to  his  graphic  ability,  and  the  stu- 
died fidelity  of  his  portraiture,  which  were  his  great  in- 
tellectual advantages,  there  were  others  arising  from  the 
warmth  and  excellence  of  his  heart.  He  sympathized 
enough  with  human  nature  to  understand  its  weaknesses 
and  wants.  His  pathos  is  sometimes  inimitable ;  and 
superadded  to  these  rare  qualifications,  we  must  allow 
him  a  felicity  of  diction,  a  fluency  and  propriety  in  the 
use  of  language,  which,  if  it  made  him  sometimes 
diffuse,  at  others  gave  a  remarkable  freedom  and  point  to 
his  verses. 

Illustrations  of  these  qualities  abound  in  Crabbe's  wri- 
tings. His  similes  convey  a  good  idea  of  his  prevailing 
tendency  to  avail  himself  of  prosaic  associations,  which 
in  ordinary  hands,  would  utterly  fail  of  their  intended 

effect : 

For  all  that  honour  brings  against  the  force 

Of  headlong  passion,  aids  its  rapid  course  ; 

Its  slight  resistance  but  provokes  the  fire, 

As  wood-work  stops  the  flame  and  then  convevs  it  higher. 

As  various  colours  in  a  painted  ball 

While  it  has  rest,  are  seen  distinctly  all ; 

Till  whirled  around  by  some  exterior  force, 

They  all  are  blended  in  the  rapid  course ; 

So  in  repose  and  not  by  passion  swayed, 

We  saw  the  difference  by  their  habits  made; 

But  tried  by  strong  emotions,  they  became 

Filled  with  one  love,  and  were  in  heart  the  same. 

The  following  are  specimens  of  his  homely  minute 
ness. 

*   cold  and  wet  and  driving  with  the  tide, 

Beats  his  weak  arms  against  his  tarry  side. 

*  An  oy6tcrman. 


CRABBE. 


Hence  one  his  favourite  habitation  gets, 
The  brick-floored  parlour  which  the  butcher  lets, 
Where,  through  his  single  light,  he  may  regard 
The  various  business  of  a  common  yard, 
Bounded  by  backs  of  buildings  formed  of  clay, 
By  stables,  sties,  coops,  et  cetera. 

A  BAR  ROOM. 

Here  port  in  bottles  stood,  a  well-stained  row, 
Drawn  for  the  evening  from  the  pipe  below  ; 
Three  powerful  spirits  filled  a  parted  case, 
Some  cordial  bottles  stood  in  secret  place  ; 
Fair  acid  fruits  in  nets  above  were  seen, 
Her  plate  was  splendid  and  her  glasses  clean, 
Basins  and  bowls  were  ready  on  the  stand, 
And  measures  clattered  in  her  powerful  hand. 
Here  curling  fumes  in  lazy  wreaths  arise, 
And  prosing  topers  rub  their  winking  eyes. 

COCK-FIGHTING. 

Here  the  poor  bird  th'  inhuman  cocker  brings, 
Arms  his  hard  heel  and  clips  his  golden  wings; 
With  spicy  foodth'  impatient  spirit  feeds, 
And  shouts  and  curses  as  the  battle  bleeds. 
Struck  through  the  brain,  deprived  of  both  his  eyes. 
The  vanquished  bird  must  combat  till  he  dies, 
Must  faintly  peck  at  his  victorious  foe, 
And  reel  and  stagger  at  each  feeble  blow  ; 
When  fallen,  the  savage  grasps  his  dabbled  plumes, 
His  blood-stained  arms  for  other  deaths  assumes, 
And  damns  the  craven  fowl  that  lost  his  stake, 
And  only  bled  and  perished  for  his  sake. 

Fresh  were  his  features,  his  attire  was  new, 
Clean  was  his  linen,  and  his  jacket  blue, 
Of  finest  jean  his  trowsers  tight  and  trim, 
Brushed  the  large  buckle  at  the  silver  rim. 

Twin  infants  then  appear,  a  girl,  a  boy, 
The  o'erflowing  cup  of  Gerard  Ablett's  joy; 
One  had  I  named  in  every  year  that  past, 
Since  Gerard  wed, — and  twins  behold  at  last ! 


132 


THOUGHTS    ON   THE  POETS. 


Ah  !  much  I  envy  thee  thy  boys  who  ride 

On  poplar  branch,  and  canter  at  thy  side  ; 

And  girls  whose  cheeks  thy  chin's  fierce  fondness  know, 

And  with  fresh  beauty  at  the  contact  glow. 

His  fondness  for  antitheses  is  often  exemplified : 

The  easy  followers  in  the  female  train, 

Led  without  love,  and  captives  without  chain. 

Opposed  to  these  we  have  a  prouder  kind, 
Rash  without  heat  and  without  raptures  blind. 

Hour  after  hour,  men  thus  contending  sit, 
Grave  without  sense,  and  pointed  without  wit 

Gained  without  skill,  without  inquiry  bought, 
Lost  without  love,  and  borrowed  without  thought. 

It  is  amusing,  with  the  old  complaints  of  the  indefi- 
niteness  of  poetry  fresh  in  the  mind,  to  encounter  such 
literal  rhyming  as  the  following, — a  sailor  is  addressing 
his  recreant  mistress : 

Nay,  speak  at  once,  and  Dinah,  let  me  know, 
Means't  thou  to  take  me,  now  I'm  wreck'd,  in  tow  ? 
Be  fair,  nor  longer  keep  me  in  the  dark, ' 
Am  I  forsaken  for  a  trimmer  spark  ? 

Grave  Jonas  Kindred,  Sybil  Kindred's  sire, 
Was  six  feet  high,  and  look'd  six  inches  higher. 

A  tender,  timid  maid,  who  knew  not  how 
To  pass  a  pig-sty,  or  to  face  a  cow. 

Where  one  huge,  wooden  bowl  before  them  stood. 
Filled  with  huge  balls  of  farinaceous  food, 
With  bacon  most  saline,  where  never  lean 
Beneath  the  brown  and  bristly  rind  was  seen. 

As  a  male  turkey  straggling  on  the  green, 
When  by  fierce  harriers,  terriers,  mongrels  seen, 
He  feels  the  insults  of  the  merry  train, 
And  moves  aside  though  filled  by  much  disdain  j 
But  when  that  turkey  at  his  own  barn-door, 
Sees  one  poor  straying  puppy  and  no  more, 


CRABBE. 


133 


(A  foolish  puppy  who  had  left  the  pack, 

Thoughtless  what  foe  was  threat'ning  at  his  back,) 

He  moves  about,  as  ships  prepared  to  sail, 

He  hoists  his  proud  rotundity  of  tail, 

The  half-sealed  eyes  and  changeful  neck  he  shows. 

Where  in  its  quickening  colours  vengeance  glows  ; 

From  red  to  blue  the  pendant  wattle  turn, 

Blue  mixed  with  red  as  matches  when  they  burn. 

And  thus  the  intruding  snarler  to  oppose, 

Urged  by  enkindling  wrath,  he  gobbling  goes. 

No  image  appears  too  humble  for  Crabbe : 

For  these  occasions  forth  his  knowledge  sprung, 
As  mustard  quickens  on  a  bed  of  dung. 

When  his  graphic  power  is  applied  to  a  different  or- 
der of  subjects  and  accompanied  with  more  sentiment, 
we  behold  the  legitimate  evidences  of  his  title  to  the  name 
of  poet : 

Then  how  serene  !  when  in  your  favourite  room, 
Gales  from  your  jasmins  soothe  the  evening  gloom, 
When  from  your  upland  paddock  you  look  down 
And  just  perceive  the  smoke  which  hides  the  town  ; 
When  weary  peasants  at  the  close  of  day, 
Walk  to  their  cots  and  part  upon  the  way  ; 
When  cattle  slowly  cross  the  shallow  brook, 
And  shepherds  pen  their  folds  and  rest  upon  their  crook. 

Their's  is  yon  house  that  holds  the  parish  poor, 
Whose  walls  of  mud  scarce  bear  the  broken  door ; 
There,  where  the  putrid  vapours  flagging  play, 
And  the  dull  wheel  hums  doleful  through  the  day ; 
There  children  dwell  who  know  no  parents  care, 
Parents,  who  know  no  child rens'  love,  dwell  there, 
Heart-broken  matrons  on  their  joyless  bed, 
Forsaken  wives  and  mothers  never  wed  ; 
Dejected  widows  with  unheeded  tears, 
And  crippled  age  with  more  than  childhood's  fears, 
The  lame,  the  blind,  and  far  the  happiest  they, 
The  moping  idiot  and  the  madman  gay. 

8* 


134  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Lo  !  where  the  heath,  with  withering  brake  grown  o'er. 

Lends  the  light  turf  that  warms  the  neighbouring  poor, 

From  thence  a  length  of  burning  sand  appears, 

Where  the  thin  harvest  waves  its  withered  ears ; 

Rank  weeds  that  every  art  and  care  defy, 

Reign  o'er  the  land  and  rob  the  blighted  rye  ; 

There  thistles  stretch  their  prickly  arms  afar, 

And  to  the  ragged  infant  threaten  war, 

There  poppies  nodding  mock  the  hope  of  toil, 

There  the  blue  bugloss  paints  the  sterile  soil ; 

Hardy  and  high  above  the  slender  sheaf, 

The  shiny  mallow  waves  her  silky  leaf ; 

O'er  the  young  shoot  the  sharlock  throws  a  shade, 

And  clasping  tares  cling  round  the  sickly  blade ; 

With  mingled  tints  the  rocky  coasts  abound, 

And  a  sad  splendour  vainly  shines  around. 

Here  joyless  roam  a  wild,  amphibious  race, 

With  sullen  woe  displayed  in  every  face ; 

Who  far  from  civil  arts  and  social  fly, 

And  scowl  at  strangers  with  suspicious  eye  ; 

Here,  too,  the  lawless  merchant  of  the  main, 

Draws  from  his  plough  th'  intoxicated  swain ; 

Want  only  claimed  the  labours  of  the  day, 

But  vice  now  steals  the  nightly  rest  away.* 

Ye  gentle  souls  who  dream  of  rural  ease, 

Whom  the  smooth  stream  and  smoother  sonnet  please  : 

Go  !  if  the  peaceful  cot  your  praises  share, 

Go  !  look  within,  and  ask  if  peace  be  there  ; 

If  peace  be  his — that  drooping,  weary  sire, 

If  theirs,  that  offspring  round  their  feeble  fire  ; 

Or  hers — that  matron  pale,  whose  trembling  hand 

Turns  on  her  wretched  hearth  the  expiring  brand. 

No  small  portion  of  the  interest  Crabbe's  writings  have 
excited,  is  to  be  ascribed  to  his  ingenious  stories.  Some 
of  them  are  entertaining  from  the  incidents  they  narrate, 
and  others  on  account  of  the  sagacious  remarks  with 
which  they  are  interwoven.    These  attractions  often  co- 

*  Tbia  admirable  description  refers  to  Aldoborougb,  the  author's  birth-placa. 


CRABBE. 


135 


exist  with  but  a  slight  degree  of  poetic  merit,  beyond  cor- 
rect versification  and  an  occasional  metaphor.  Most  of 
the  tales  are  founded  in  real  circumstances,  and  the  char- 
acters were  drawn,  with  some  modification,  from  existent 
originals.  Scarcely  a  feature  of  romance  or  even  im- 
probability belong  to  these  singular  narratives.  They  are 
usually  domestic  in  their  nature,  and  excite  curiosity  be- 
cause so  near  to  common  experience.  As  proofs  of  in- 
ventive genius  they  are  often  striking,  and  if  couched  in 
elegant  prose  or  a  dramatic  form,  would,  in  some  cases, 
be  far  more  effective.  Lamb  tried  the  latter  experiment 
in  one  instance,  with  marked  success.^  These  rhymed 
histories  of  events  and  personages  within  the  range  of 
ordinary  life,  seem  admirably  calculated  to  win  the  less 
imaginative  to  a  love  of  poetry.  Crabbe  has  proved  a 
most  serviceable  pioneer  to  the  timid  haunters  of  Parnas- 
sus, and  decked  with  alluring  trophies,  the  outskirts  of 
the  land  of  song.  We  can  easily  understand  how  a  cer- 
tain order  of  minds  relish  his  poems  better  than  any  other 
writings  in  the  same  department  of  literature.  There  is 
a  singular  tone  of  every-day  truth  and  practical  sense 
about  them.  They  deal  with  the  tangible  realities  around 
us.  They  unfold  "  the  artful  workings  of  a  vulgar  mind," 
and  depict  with  amusing  exactitude,  the  hourly  trials  of 
existence.  A  gipsy  group,  a  dissipated  burgess,  the  vic- 
tims of  profligacy,  the  mean  resentments  of  ignorant 
minds,  a  coarse  tyrant,  a  vindictive  woman,  a  fen  or  a 
fishing  boat — those  beings  and  objects  which  meet  us  by 
the  way-side  of  the  world,  the  common,  the  real,  the 
more  rude  elements  of  life,  are  set  before  us  in  the  pages 
of  Crabbe,  in  the  most  bold  relief  and  affecting  contrast. 
There  is  often  a  gloom,  an  unrelieved  wretchedness,  an 
absolute  degradation  about  these  delineations,  which 
weighs  upon  the  spirits — the  sadness  of  a  tragedy  with- 
*  The  Wife's  Trial. 


136 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


out  its  ideal  grandeur  or  its  poetic  consolation.  But  the 
redeeming  influence  of  such  creations  lies  in  the  melan- 
choly but  wholesome  truths  they  convey.  The  mists 
that  shroud  the  dwellings  of  the  wretched  are  rolled  away, 
the  wounds  of  the  social  system  are  laid  bare,  and  the 
sternest  facts  of  experience  are  proclaimed.  This  process 
was  greatly  required  in  Great  Britain  when  Crabbe  ap- 
peared as  the  bard  of  the  poor.  He  arrayed  the  dark 
history  of  their  needs  and  oppression  in  a  guise  which 
would  attract  the  eye  of  taste.  He  led  many  a  luxurious 
peer  to  the  haunts  of  poverty.  He  carried  home  to  the 
souls  of  the  pampered  and  proud,  a  startling  revelation  of 
the  distress  and  crime  that  hung  unnoticed  around  their 
steps.  He  fulfilled,  in  his  day,  the  same  benevolent  of- 
fice which,  in  a  different  style,  has  since  been  so  ably 
continued  by  Dickens.  These  two  writers  have  pub- 
lished to  the  world,  the  condition  of  the  English  poor,  in 
characters  of  light ;  and  thrown  the  whole  force  of  their 
genius  into  an  appeal  from  the  iniustice  of  society  and 
the  abuses  of  civilization. 


SHELLEY. 


M  Was  cradled  into  poetry  by  wrong, 
And  learned  in  suffering  what  he  taught  in  song." 

It  is  now  about  eighteen  years  since  the  waters  of  the 
Mediterranean  closed  over  one  of  the  most  delicately  or- 
ganized and  richly  endowed  beings  of  our  era.  A  scion 
of  the  English  aristocracy,  the  nobility  of  his  soul  threw 
far  into  the  shade  all  conventional  distinctions  ;  while  his 
views  of  life  and  standard  of  action  were  infinitely  broad- 
er and  more  elevated  than  the  narrow  limits  of  caste. 
Highly  imaginative,  susceptible  and  brave,  even  in  boy- 
hood he  reverenced  the  honest  convictions  of  his  own 
mind  above  success  or  authority.  With  a  deep  thirst  for 
knowledge,  he  united  a  profound  interest  in  his  race. 
Highly  philosophical  in  his  taste,  truth  was  the  prize  for 
which  he  most  earnestly  contended  ;  heroical  in  his  tem- 
per, freedom  he  regarded  as  the  dearest  boon  of  exist- 
ence ;  of  a  tender  and  ardent  heart,  love  was  the  grand 
hope  and  consolation  of  his  being,  while  beauty  formed 
the  most  genial  element  of  his  existence. 

Of  such  a  nature,  when  viewed  in  a  broad  light,  were 
the  elements  of  Shelley's  character.  Nor  is  it  difficult 
to  reconcile  them  with  the  detail  of  his  opinions  and  the 
tenor  of  his  life.  It  is  easy  to  imagine  a  state  of  society 
in  which  such  a  being  might  freely  develope,  and  felicit- 
ously realize  principles  and  endowments  so  full  of  pro- 


138 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


mise ;  while,  on  the  other  hand,  it  is  only  necessary  to 
look  around  on  the  world  as  it  is,  or  back  upon  its  past 
records,  to  lose  all  surprise  that  this  fine  specimen  of  hu- 
manity was  sadly  misunderstood  and  his  immediate  in- 
fluence perverted.  The  happy  agency  which  as  an  inde- 
pendent thinker  and  humane  poet  might  have  been  pro- 
phecied  of  Shelley,  presupposed  a  degree  of  considera- 
tion and  sympathy,  not  to  say  delicacy  and  reverence,  on 
the  part  of  society,  a  wisdom  in  the  process  of  education, 
a  scope  of  youthful  experience,  an  entire  integrity  of  treat- 
ment, to  be  encountered  only  in  the  dreams  of  the 
Utopian.  To  have  elicited  in  forms  of  unadulterated 
good  the  characteristics  of  such  a  nature,  "  when  his  be- 
ing overflowed,"  the  world  should  have  been  to  him, 

"  As  a  golden  chalice  to  bright  wine 
Which  else  had  sunk  into  the  thirsty  dust."* 

Instead  of  this,  at  the  first  sparkling  of  that  fountain,  the 
teachings  of  the  world,  and  the  lessons  of  life,  were  cal- 
culated to  dam  up  its  free  tide  in  the  formal  embank- 
ments of  custom  and  power.  What  wonder,  then,  that 
it  overleaped  such  barriers,  and  wound  wayvvardly  aside 
into  solitude,  to  hear  no  sound  "save  its  own  dashings?" 

The  publication  of  the  posthumous  proset  of  Shelley, 
is  chiefly  interesting  from  the  fact  that  it  perfectly  con- 
firms our  best  impressions  of  the  man.  We  here  trace 
in  his  confidential  letters,  the  love  and  philanthropy  to 
which  his  muse  was  devoted.  All  his  literary  opinions 
evidence  the  same  sincerity.  His  refined  admiration  of 
nature,  his  habits  of  intense  study  and  moral  independ- 
ence, have  not  been  exaggerated.  The  noble  actions 
ascribed  to  him  by  partial  friends,  are  proved  to  be  the 

*  Prometheus  Unbound. 

f  Essays,  Letters  from  Abroad,  Translations  and  Fragments. 
By  Percy  Bysshe  Shelley.  Edited  by  Mrs.  Shelley :  London. 
1840. 


SHELL  EY . 


139 


natural  results  of  his  native  feelings.  The  peculiar  suf- 
ferings of  body  and  mind,  of  experience  and  imagina- 
tion, to  which  his  temperament  and  destiny  subjected 
him,  have  in  no  degree  been  overstated.  His  generosity 
and  high  ideal  of  intellectual  greatness  and  human  excel- 
lence, are  more  than  indicated  in  the  unstudied  outpour- 
ings of  his  familiar  correspondence. 

Love,  according  to  Shelley,  is  the  sum  and  essence  of 
goodness.  While  listening  to  the  organ  in  the  Cathedral 
of  Pisa,  he  sighed  that  charity  instead  of  faith  was  not 
regarded  as  the  substance  of  universal  religion.  Self  he 
considered  as  the  poisonous  "  burr  "  which  especially  de- 
formed modern  society ;  and  to  overthrow  this  "  dark 
idolatry,"  he  embarked  on  a  lonely  but  most  honourable 
crusade.  The  impetuosity  of  youth  doubtless  gave  to 
the  style  of  his  enterprise  an  aspect  startling  to  some  of 
his  well-meaning  fellow-creatures.  All  social  reformers 
must  expect  to  be  misinterpreted  and  reviled.  In  the 
case  of  Shelley,  the  great  cause  for  regret  is  that  so  few 
should  have  paid  homage  to  his  pure  and  sincere  inten- 
tions ;  that  so  many  should  have  credited  the  countless 
slanders  heaped  on  his  name  ;  and  that  a  nature  so  gifted 
and  sensitive,  should  have  been  selected  as  the  object  of 
such  wilful  persecution. 

The  young  poet  saw  men  reposing  supinely  upon  dog- 
mas, and  hiding  cold  hearts  behind  technical  creeds,  in- 
stead of  acting  out  the  sublime  idea  of  human  brother- 
hood. His  moral  sense  was  shocked  at  the  injustice  of 
society  in  heaping  contumely  upon  an  erring  woman, 
while  it  recognizes  and  honours  the  author  of  her  dis- 
grace. He  saddened  at  the  spectacle  so  often  presented, 
of  artificial  union  in  married  life,  the  enforced  constancy 
of  unsympathizing  beings,  hearts  dying  out  in  the  long 
struggle  of  an  uncongenial  bond.  Above  all,  his  benevo- 
lent spirit  bled  for  the  slavery  of  the  mass — the  supersti- 


140 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


tious  enthralment  of  the  ignorant  many.  He  looked  upon 
the  long  procession  of  his  fellow-creatures  plodding 
gloomily  on  to  their  graves,  conscious  of  social  bondage, 
yet  making  no  effort  for  freedom,  groaning  under  self- 
imposed  burdens,  yet  afraid  to  cast  them  off,  conceiving 
better  things,  yet  executing  nothing.  Many  have  felt 
and  still  feel  thus.  Shelley  aspired  to  embody  in  action, 
and  to  illustrate  in  life  and  literature  the  reform  which 
his  whole  nature  demanded.  He  dared  to  lead  forth  at 
a  public  ball  the  scorned  victim  of  seduction,  and  appal 
the  hypocritical  crowd  by  an  act  of  true  moral  courage. 
As  a  boy,  he  gave  evidence  of  his  attachment  to  liberty 
by  overthrowing  a  system  of  school  tyranny;  and  this 
sentiment,  in  after  life,  found  scope  in  his  Odes  to  the 
Revolutionists  of  Spain  and  Italy.  He  fearlessly  dis- 
cussed the  subject  of  marriage,  and  argued  for  abolishing 
an  institution  which  he  sincerely  believed  perverted  the 
very  sentiment  upon  which  it  is  professedly  based.  "  If  I 
have  conformed  to  the  usages  of  the  world,  on  the  score 
.of  matrimony,"  says  one  of  his  letters,  "  it  is  that  dis- 
grace always  attaches  to  the  weaker  sex."  In  relation 
to  this  and  other  of  his  theories,  the  language  of  a  fine 
writer  in  reference  to  a  kindred  spirit  is  justly  applicable 
to  Shelley.  "  He  conceived  too  nobly  for  his  fellows — 
he  raised  the  standard  of  morality  above  the  reach  of  hu- 
manity ;  and,  by  directing  virtue  to  the  most  airy  and 
romantic  heights,  made  her  paths  dangerous,  solitary, 
and  impracticable."  Shelley  entertained  a  perfect  dis- 
gust for  the  consideration  attached  to  wealth,  and  ob- 
served, with  impatient  grief,  the  shadow  property  throws 
over  modest  worth  and  unmoneyed  excellence.  Upon  this 
sentiment,  also,  he  habitually  acted.  The  maintenance 
of  his  opinions  cost  him,  among  other  sacrifices,  a  fine 
estate.  So  constant  and  profuse  was  his  liberality  to- 
wards impoverished  men  of  letters,  and  the  indigent  in 


SHELLEY. 


141 


general,  that  he  was  obliged  to  live  with  great  economy. 
He  subjected  himself  to  serious  inconvenience  while  in 
Italy,  to  assist  a  friend  in  introducing  steam  navigation 
on  the  Mediterranean.  It  was  his  disposition  to  glory  in 
and  support  true  merit  wherever  he  found  it.  He  was 
one  of  the  first  to  recognize  the  dawning  genius  of  Mrs. 
Hemans,  to  whom  he  addressed  a  letter  of  encourage- 
ment when  she  was  a  mere  girl.  He  advocated  a  diet- 
etic reform,  from  a  strong  conviction  that  abstinence  from 
spirituous  liquors  and  animal  food,  would  do  much  to  reno- 
vate the  human  race.  Upon  this  idea  his  own  habits  were 
based.  But  the  most  obnoxious  of  Shelley's  avowed  opin- 
ions, was  his  non-concurrence  in  the  prevalent  system 
of  Religion.  To  the  reflective  student  of  his  writings, 
however,  the  poet's  atheism  is  very  different  from  what 
interested  critics  have  made  it.  School  and  its  associa- 
tions were  inexpressibly  trying  to  his  free  and  sensitive 
nature  ;  and  a  series  of  puzzling  questions  of  a  metaphy- 
sical character,  which  he  encountered  in  the  course  of 
his  recreative  reading,  planted  the  seeds  of  skepticism  in 
his  mind,  which  enforced  religious  observances  and  un- 
happy experience  soon  fertilized.  Queen  Mab,  the  pro- 
duction of  a  collegian  in  his  teens,  is  rather  an  attack 
upon  a  creed  than  Christianity ;  and  was  never  published 
with  the  author's  consent.  It  should  be  considered  as 
the  crude  outbreak  of  juvenile  talent  eager  to  make  trial 
of  the  new  weapons  furnished  by  the  logic  of  Eton.  Yet 
it  was  impertinently  dragged  into  notice  to  blight  the 
new  and  rich  flowers  of  his  maturer  genius,  and  meanly 
quoted  against  Shelley  in  the  chancery  suit  by  which  he 
was  deprived  of  his  children.  Instead  of  smiling  at  its 
absurdities,  or  rejecting,  with  similar  reasoning  its  argu- 
ments, the  force  of  authority,  the  very  last  to  alarm  such 
a  spirit,  was  alone  resorted  to.  What  wonder  if  the  ar- 
dent boy's  doubts  of  the  popular  system  was  increased, 


142 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


his  views  of  social  degradation  confirmed ;  that  he  came 
to  regard  custom  as  the  tyrant  of  the  universe,  and  pro- 
posed to  abandon  a  world  from  whose  bosom  he  had  been 
basely  spurned  ?  If  an  intense  attachment  to  truth,  and 
an  habitual  spirit  of  disinterestedness  constitute  any  part 
of  religion,  Shelley  was  eminently  religious.  For  the 
divine  character  portrayed  in  the  Gospels,  he  probably,  in 
his  latter  years,  had  a  truer  reverence  than  the  majority 
of  Christians.  If  we  are  to  credit  one  of  his  most  inti- 
mate friends,  the  Beatitudes  constituted  his  delight  and 
embodied  his  principles  of  faith.  As  far  as  the  Deity  is 
worshipped  by  a  profound  sensibility  to  the  wonders  and 
beauty  of  his  universe,  a  tender  love  of  his  creatures  and 
a  cherished  veneration  for  the  highest  revelations  of  hu- 
manity, the  calumniated  poet  was  singularly  devout. 
"  Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread,"  is  true  of  hu- 
man conduct  not  less  in  its  so  called  religious  than  its 
other  aspects.  We  live  in  an  atmosphere  of  doubt.  To 
attain  to  clear  and  unvarying  convictions,  in  regard  to 
the  mysteries  of  our  being,  is  not  the  lot  of  ail.  There 
are  those  who  cannot  choose  but  wonder  at  the  unbound- 
ed confidence  of  theologians.  It  is  comparatively  easy  to 
be  a  church-goer,  to  conform  to  religious  observances,  to 
acquiesce  in  prevailing  opinions  ;  but  to  how  many  all 
this  is  but  a  part  of  the  mere  machinery  of  life  !  There 
are  those  who  are  slow  to  profess  and  quick  to  feel,  who 
can  only  bow  in  meekness,  and  hope  in  trembling.  Shel- 
ley's nature  was  peculiarly  reverential,  but  he  entertained 
certain  speculative  doubts — and  with  the  ordinary  dis- 
plays of  Christianity  he  could  not  sympathize.  The  popu- 
lar conception  of  the  Divinity  did  not  meet  his  wants ; 
and  so  the  world  attached  to  him  the  brand  of  atheist, 
and,  under  this  anathema,  hunted  him  down.  "  The 
shapings  of  our  Heavens,"  says  Lamb,  "  are  the  modifi- 
cations of  our  constitutions."  Shelley's  ideal  nature 
modified  his  religious  sentiment. 


SHELLEY. 


143 


"I  loved,  I  know  not  what ;  but  this  low  sphere 
And  all  that  it  contains,  contains  not  thee  : 

Thou  whom  seen  nowhere,  I  feel  everywhere, 
Dim  object  of  my  soul's  idolatry."* 

His  Hymn  to  Intellectual  beauty  is  instinct  with  the 
spirit  of  pure  devotion,  directed  to  the  highest  conception 
of  his  nature.  Unthinking,  indeed,  is  he  who  can  for  a 
moment  believe  that  such  a  being  could  exist  without 
adoration.  Dr.  Johnson  says  that  Milton  grew  old  with- 
out any  visible  worship.  The  opinions  of  Shelley  are  no 
more  to  be  regarded  as  an  index  to  his  heart,  than  the 
blind  bard's  quiet  musings  as  a  proof  that  the  fire  of 
devotion  did  not  burn  within.  Shelley's  expulsion  from 
college,  for  questioning  the  validity  of  Christianity,  or 
perhaps  more  justly,  asserting  its  abuses,  was  the  turning 
point  in  his  destiny.  This  event,  following  immediately 
upon  the  disappointment  of  his  first  attachment,  stirred 
the  very  depths  of  his  nature — and  in  all  probability, 
transformed  the  future  man,  from  a  good  English  squire, 
to  a  politician  and  reformer.  Then  came  his  premature 
marriage,  to  which  impulsive  gratitude  was  the  blind 
motive,  the  bitter  consequences  of  his  error,  his  divorce 
and  separation  from  his  children,  his  new  and  happy 
connection  founded  on  true  affection  and  intellectual  sym- 
pathy, his  adventurous  exile  and  sudden  death.  How 
long,  we  are  tempted  to  ask  in  calmly  reviewing  his  life, 
will  it  require,  in  this  age  of  wonders,  for  the  truth  to  be 
recognized  that  opinions  are  independent  of  the  will,  and 
therefore  not,  in  themselves,  legitimate  subjects  of  moral 
approbation  or  blame  ?  It  has  been  said  that  the  purpo- 
ses of  men  most  truly  indicate  their  characters.  Where 
can  we  find  an  individual  in  modern  history  of  more 
exalted  aims  than  Shelley  ?  While  a  youth,  he  was  wont 
to  stray  from  his  fellows,  and  thoughtfully  resolve 
*  The  Zucca 


144 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


"  To  be  wise 
And  just  and  free  and  mild."* 

When  suffering  poverty  in  London,  after  his  banish- 
ment, his  benevolence  found  exercise  in  the  hospitals, 
which  he  daily  visited  to  minister  to  the  victims  of  pain 
and  disease.  The  object  of  constant  malice,  he  never 
degenerated  into  a  satirist. 

u  Alas,  good  friend,  what  profit  can  you  see 
In  hating  such  a  hateless  thing  as  me  ? 
*  *  *  * 

There  is  no  sport  in  hate,  when  all  the  rage 
Is  on  one  side. 

Of  your  antipathy 
If  I  am  the  Narcissus,  you  are  free 
To  pine  into  a  sound  with  hating  me."f 

Though  baffled  in  his  plans,  and  cut  off  from  frequent 
enjoyment  by  physical  anguish,  love  and  hope  still  tri- 
umphed over  misanthropy  and  despair.  He  was  adored 
by  his  friends,  and  beloved  by  the  poor.  Even  Byron 
curbed  his  passions  at  Shelley's  wise  rebuke,  hailed  him 
as  his  better  angel,  and  transfused  something  of  his  ele- 
vated tone  into  the  later  emanations  of  his  genius. 

"  Fearless  he  was  and  scorning  all  disguise, 

What  he  dared  do  or  think,  though  men  might  start, 

He  spoke  with  mild  yet  unaverted  eyes  ; 
Liberal  he  was  of  soul  and  frank  of  heart ; 

And  to  his  dearest  friends,  who  loved  him  well, 
Whate'er  he  knew  or  felt  he  would  impart."}: 

And  yet  this  is  the  man  who  was  disgraced  and  banned 
for  his  opinions — deemed  by  a  court  of  his  country  un- 
worthy to  educate  his  own  children — disowned  by  his 
kindred,  and  forced  from  his  native  land  !  What  a  re- 
flection to  a  candid  mind,  that  slander  long  prevented 
acquaintance  and  communion  between  Shelley  and  Lamb ! 

*  Revolt  of  Islam.          t  Sonnet.  i  Prince  Athanase. 


SHELLEY. 


145 


How  disgusting  the  thought  of  those  vapid  faces  of  the 
travelling  English,  who  have  done  more  to  disenchant 
Italy  than  all  her  beggars,  turned  in  scorn  from  the  poet, 
as  they  encountered  him  on  the  Pincian  or  Lung'Arno  ! 
With  what  indignation  do  we  think  of  that  beautiful 
head  being  defaced  by  a  blow  !  Yet  we  are  told,  when 
Shelley  was  inquiring  for  letters  at  a  continental  post- 
office,  some  ruffian,  under  colour  of  the  common  preju- 
dice, upon  hearing  his  name,  struck  him  to  earth. 

As  a  poet  Shelley  was  strikingly  original.  He  main- 
tained the  identity  of  poetry  and  philosophy  ;  and  the 
bent  of  his  genius  seems  to  have  been  to  present  philoso- 
phical speculations,  and  "  beautiful  idealisms  of  moral 
excellence,"  in  poetical  forms.  He  was  too  fond  of  look- 
ing beyond  the  obvious  and  tangible  to  form  a  merely 
descriptive  poet,  and  too  metaphysical  in  his  taste  to  be  a 
purely  sentimental  one.  He  has  neither  the  intense  ego- 
tism of  Byron,  nor  the  simple  fervour  of  Burns.  In  gen- 
eral the  scope  of  his  poems  is  abstract,  abounding  in 
wonderful  displays  of  fancy  and  allegorical  invention. 
Of  these  qualities,  the  Revolt  of  Islam  is  a  striking  ex- 
ample. This  lack  of  personality  and  directness,  prevents 
the  poetry  of  Shelley  from  impressing  the  memory  like 
that  of  Mrs.  Hemans'  or  Moore.  His  images  pass  before 
the  mind  like  frost  work  at  moonlight,  strangely  beauti- 
ful, glittering  and  rare,  but  of  transient  duration,  and 
dream-like  interest.  Hence,  the  great  body  of  his  poetry 
can  never  be  popular.  Of  this  he  seemed  perfectly  aware, 
11  Prometheus  Unbound,"  according  to  his  own  statement, 
was  composed  with  a  view  to  a  very  limited  audience  ; 
and  the  "Cenci,"  which  was  written  according  to  more 
popular  canons  of  taste,  cost  him  great  labour.  The 
other  dramas  of  Shelley  are  cast  in  classical  moulds, 
not  only  as  to  form  but  m  tone  and  spirit ;  and  scattered 
through  them  are  some  of  the  most  splendid  gems  of 


146 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


expression  and  metaphor  to  be  found  in  the  whole  range 
of  English  poetry.  Although  these  classical  dramas 
seem  to  have  been  most  congenial  to  the  poet's  taste, 
there  is  abundant  evidence  of  his  superior  capacity  in 
more  popular  schools  of  his  art.  For  touching  beauty, 
his  "  Lines  written  in  Dejection  near  Naples,"  is  not  sur- 
passed by  any  similar  lyric  ;  and  his  "  Sky-Lark"  is 
perfectly  buoyant  with  the  very  music  it  commemorates. 
"  Julian  and  Maddalo"  was  written  according  to  Leigh 
Hunt's  theory  of  poetical  diction,  and  is  a  graceful  speci- 
men of  that  style.  But  "  The  Cenci"  is  the  greatest 
evidence  we  have  of  the  poet's  power  over  his  own  geni- 
us. Horrible  and  difficult  of  refined  treatment  as  is  the 
subject,  with  what  power  and  tact  is  it  developed ! 
When  I  beheld  the  pensive  loveliness  of  Beatrice's  por- 
trait at  the  Barbarini  palace,  it  seemed  as  if  the  painter 
had  exhausted  the  ideal  of  her  story.  Shelley's  tragedy 
should  be  read  with  that  exquisite  painting  before  the 
imagination.  The  poet  has  surrounded  it  with  an  inter- 
est surpassing  the  limner's  art.  For  impressive  effect 
upon  the  reader's  mind,  exciting  the  emotions  of  "  terror 
and  pity"  which  tragedy  aims  to  produce,  how  few  mod- 
ern dramas  can  compare  with  "  The  Cenci  !"  Perhaps 
k<  Adonais"  is  the  most  characteristic  of  Shelley's  poems. 
It  was  written  under  the  excitement  of  sympathy  ;  and 
while  the  style  and  images  are  peculiar  to  the  poet,  an 
uncommon  degree  of  natural  sentiment  vivifies  this  elegy. 
In  dwelling  upon  its  pathetic  numbers,  we  seem  to  trace 
in  the  fate  of  Keats,  thus  poetically  described,  Shelley's 
own  destiny  depicted  by  the  instinct  of  his  genius. 

"  0,  weep  for  Adonais  ! — The  quick  Dreams, 
The  passion-winged  Ministers  of  thought, 
Who  were  his  flocks,  whom  near  the  living  streams 
Of  his  young  spirit  he  fed,  and  whom  he  taught 
The  love  which  was  its  music,  wander  not, — 
Wander  no  more. 


SHELLEY. 


*  0  gentle  child,  beautiful  as  thou  wert, 

Why  didst  thou  leave  the  trodden  paths  of  men 

Too  soon,  and  with  weak  hands  though  mighty  heart, 

Dare  the  unpastured  dragon  in  his  den, 

Defenceless  as  thou  wert,  oh  !  where  was  then 

Wisdom  the  mirror'd  shield,  or  scorn  the  spear  ? 

Or  hadst  thou  waited  the  full  cycle  when 

Thy  spirit  should  have  filPd  its  cresent  sphere, 

The  monsters  of  life's  waste  had  fled  from  thee  like  deer 
****** 

Nor  let  us  weep  that  our  delight  is  fled 

Far  from  these  carrion-kites  that  scream  below ; 

He  wakes  or  sleeps  with  the  enduring  dead  ; 

Thou  canst  not  soar  where  he  is  sitting  now. 

Dust  to  the  dust !  but  the  pure  spirit  shall  flow 

Back  to  the  burning  fountain  whence  it  came, 

A  portion  of  the  Eternal.  , 
****** 

He  has  outsoar'd  the  shadow  of  our  night ; 

Envy  and  calumny,  and  hate  and  pain, 

And  that  unrest  which  men  miscall  delight. 

Can  touch  him  not  and  torture  not  again  ; 

From  the  contagion  of  the  world's  slow  stain 

He  is  secure,  and  now  can  never  mourn 

A  heart  grown  cold,  a  head  grown  gray  in  vain ; 

Nor,  when  the  spirit's  self  has  ceased  to  burn, 

With  sparkless  ashes  load  an  unlamented  urn. 
****** 

The  inheritors  of  unfulfilled  renown, 

Rose  from  their  thrones  built  beyond  mortal  thought 

Far  in  the  Unapparent. 

*  Thou  art  become  one  of  us.'  they  crv. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

And  he  is  gathered  to  the  kings  of  thought 

Who  waged  contention  with  their  times  decay, 

And  of  the  past  are  all  that  cannot  pass  away. 
****** 

Life,  like  a  dome  of  many-colour'd  glass, 

Stains  the  white  radiance  of  Eternity, 

Until  Death  tramples  it  to  fragments. 

***** 

My  spirit's  bark  is  driven 

Far  from  the  shore,  far  from  the  trembling  throng 

Whose  sails  were  never  to  the  tempest  given." 


148 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS 


The  elements  of  Shelley's  genius  were  rarely  mingled. 
The  grand  in  nature  delighted  his  muse.  Volcanoes  and 
glaciers,  Alpine  summits  and  rocky  caverns  rilled  his  fan- 
cy. It  was  his  joy  to  pass  the  spring-days  amid  the  ruin- 
ed baths  of  Caracalla,  and  to  seek  the  corridors  of  the 
Coliseum  at  moonlight.  He  loved  to  watch  the  growth 
of  thunder-showers,  and  to  chronicle  his  dreams.  Ger- 
man literature,  to  which  he  was  early  attracted,  probably 
originated  much  of  his  taste  for  the  wild  and  wonderful. 
Plato  and  the  Greek  poets,  sculpture  and  solitude,  fed  his 
spirit.  Such  ideas  as  that  of  will  Unconquered  by  tyr- 
anny, the  brave  endurance  of  suffering,  legends  like  the 
"  Wandering  Jew" — the  poetry  of  evil  as  depicted  in  the 
Book  of  Job — "  Paradise  Lost,"  the  story  of  "  Prome- 
theus," and  the  traditions  of  "  The  Cenci,"  interested 
him  profoundly.  He  revelled  in  "  the  tempestuous  love- 
liness of  terror."  The  sea  was  Shelley's  idol.  Some 
of  his  happiest  hours  were  passed  in  a  boat.  The  easy 
motion, 

"  Active  without  toil  or  stress, 
Passive  without  listlessness," 

probably  soothed  his  excitable  temperament ;  while  the 
expanse  of  wave  and  sky,  the  countless  phenomena  of 
cloud  and  billow,  and  the  awful  grandeur  of  storms  en- 
tranced his  soul.  Hence  his  favourite  illustrations  are 
drawn  from  the  sea,  and  many  of  them  are  as  perfect 
pearls  of  poesy  as  ever  the  adventurous  diver  rescued 
from  the  deep  of  imagination.  Nor  were  they  obtained 
without  severe  struggle  and  earnest  application.  Shel- 
ley's life  was  intense,  and  although  only  in  his  thirtieth 
year  when  his  beloved  element  wrapped  him  in  the  em- 
brace of  death,  the  snows  of  premature  age  already  fleck- 
ed his  auburn  locks  ;  and,  in  sensation  and  experience, 
he  was  wont  to  say,  he  had  far  outsped  the  calendar. 
Shelley  was  a  true  disciple  of  love.    He  maintained  with 


SHELLEY. 


149 


rare  eloquence  the  spontaneity  and  sanctity  of  the  passion, 
and  sought  to  realize  the  ideal  of  his  affections  with  all  a 
poet's  earnestness.    Alastor  typifies  the  vain  search. 

Time — the  great  healer  of  wounded  hearts — the  mighty 
vindicator  of  injured  worth — is  rapidly  dispersing  the 
mists  which  have  hitherto  shrouded  the  fame  of  Shelley. 
Sympathy  for  his  sufferings,  and  a  clearer  insight  into 
his  motives,  are  fast  redeeming  his  name  and  influence. 
Whatever  views  his  countrymen  may  entertain,  there  is 
a  kind  of  living  posterity  in  this  young  republic,  who 
judge  of  genius  by  a  calm  study  of  its  fruits,  wholly  un- 
influenced by  the  distant  murmur  of  local  prejudice  and 
party  rage.  To  such,  the  thought  of  Shelley  is  hallowed 
by  the  aspirations  and  spirit  of  love  with  which  his  verse 
overflows  ;  and  in  their  pilgrimage  to  the  old  world,  they 
turn  aside  from  the  more  august  ruins  of  Rome,  to  muse 
reverently  upon  the  poet,  where 

"  One  keen  pyramid  with  wedge  sublime, 
Pavilioning  the  dust  of  him  who  plann'd 
This  refuge  for  his  memory,  doth  stand 
Like  flame  transform'd  to  marble  ;  and  beneath, 
A  field  is  spread,  on  which  a  newer  band 
Have  pitched  in  Heaven's  smile  their  camp  of  death, 
Welcoming  him  we  love  with  scarce  extinguish'd  breath."* 


Note. — This  article  having  been  censured  and  misunderstood,  the  following 
letter  was  afterwards  published  in  the  Magazine  in  which  it  appeared. 

"  Your  letter  informing  me  of  the  manner  in  which  some  of 
your  readers  have  seen  fit  to  regard  my  remarks  on  Shelley,  is  at 
hand.  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive  how  any  candid  or  discrimina- 
ting mind  can  view  the  article  in  question  as  a  defence  of  Shel- 
ley's opinions.  It  was  intended  rather  to  place  the  man  himself 
in  a  more  just  point  of  view,  than  that  which  common  prejudice 
assigns  him.  T  only  contend  that  mere  opinions — especially  those 
of  early  youth,  do  not  constitute  the  only  or  the  best  criterion  of 
character.  I  have  spoken  in  defence  rather  of  Shelley's  tenden- 
cies and  real  purposes,  than  of  his  theories,  and  endeavoured  to 
*  Adonais. 

9* 


150 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


vindicate  what  was  truly  lovely  and  noble  in  his  nature.  To 
these  gifts  and  graces  the  many  have  long  been  blinded.  We 
have  heard  much  of  Shelley's  atheistical  philosophy  and  little  of 
his  benevolent  heart,  much  of  his  boyish  infidelity  and  little  of 
his  kind  acts  and  elevated  sentiments.  That  I  have  attempted  to 
call  attention  to  these  characteristics  of  the  poet,  I  cannot  regret; 
and  to  me  such  a  course  seems  perfectly  consistent  with  a  rejec- 
tion of  his  peculiar  views  of  society  and  religion.  These  wc 
know  were  in  a  great  degree  visionary  and  contrary  to  well-estab- 
lished principles  of  human  nature.  Still  they  were  ever  under- 
going modifications,  and  his  heart  often  anticipated  the  noblest 
teachings  of  faith.  A  careful  study  of  the  life  and  writings  of 
Shelley,  will  narrow  the  apparent  chasm  between  him  and  the 
acknowledged  ornaments  of  our  race.  It  will  lead  us  to  trace 
much  that  is  obnoxious  in  his  views  to  an  aggravated  experience 
of  ill,  and  to  discover  in  the  inmost  sanctuary  of  his  soul  much  to 
venerate  and  love,  much  that  will  sanctify  the  genius  which  the 
careless  and  bigoted  regard  as  having  been  wholly  desecrated. 

"  One  of  your  correspondents  says,  '  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  mi- 
nutely acquainted  with  the  details  of  his  life,  having  never  read 
his  letters  recently  published.'  And  yet,  confessedly  ignorant  of 
the  subject,  as  he  is,  he  still  goes  on  to  repeat  and  exaggerate  the 
various  slanders  which  have  been  heaped  upon  the  name  of  one 
who  I  still  believe  should  rank  among  the  most  noble  characters 
of  modern  times.  It  is  not  a  little  surprising  that  while,  in  all 
questions  of  science,  men  deem  the  most  careful  inquiry  requisite 
to  form  just  conclusions,  in  those  infinitely  more  subtle  and  holy 
inquiries  which  relate  to  human  character,  they  do  not  scruple  to 
yield  to  the  most  reckless  prejudice.  Far  otherwise  do  I  look 
upon  such  subjects.  When  an  individual  has  given  the  most  un- 
doubted proof  of  high  and  generous  character,  I  reverence  human 
nature  too  much  to  credit  every  scandalous  rumour,  or  acquiesce 
in  the  suggestions  of  malevolent  criticism,  regarding  him.  Had 
your  correspondent  examined  conscientiously  the  history  of  Shel- 
ley, he  would  have  discovered  that  he  never  abandoned  his  wife, 
and  thus  drove  her  to  self-destruction.  They  were  wholly  unfit 
companions.  Shelley  married  her  from  gratitude,  for  the  kind 
care  she  took  of  him  in  illness.  It  was  the  impulsive  act  of  a 
generous  but  thoughtless  youth.  They  separated  by  mutual  con- 
sent, and  some  time  elapsed  before  she  committed  suicide.  That 
event  is  said  to  have  overwhelmed  Shelley  with  grief,  not  that  j 
he  felt  himself  in  any  manner  to  blame,  but  that  he  had  not  suffi- 


SHELLEY. 


161 


r.iently  considered  his  wife's  incapacity  for  self-government,  and 
provided  by  suitable  care  for  so  dreadful  an  exigency.  After  this 
event,  Shelley  married  Miss  Godwin,  with  whom  he  enjoyed 
uninterrupted  domestic  felicity  during  the  short  remainder  of  his 
life.  His  conduct  accorded  perfectly  with  the  views,  and,  in  a 
great  measure,  with  the  practice  of  Milton.  With  that  prying 
injustice,  which  characterizes  the  English  press,  in  relation  to 
persons  holding  obnoxious  opinions,  the  facts  were  misrepresent- 
ed, and  Shelley  described  as  one  of  the  most  cruel  monsters.  So 
much  for  his  views  of  Religion  and  Marriage.  4  A  Friend  to 
Virtue'  is  shocked  at  my  remark,  that  •  opinions  are  not  in  them- 
selves legitimate  subjects  of  moral  approbation  or  censure.'  He 
should  have  quoted  the  whole  sentence.  The  reason  adduced  is, 
that  they  are  *  independent  of  the  will.'  This  I  maintain  to  be 
correct.  I  know  not  what  are  the  grounds  upon  which  '  A  Friend 
to  Virtue'  estimates  his  kind.  For  myself,  it  is  my  honest  en- 
deavour to  look  through  the  web  of  opinion,  and  the  environment 
of  circumstances,  to  the  heart.  Intellectual  constitutions  differ 
essentially.  They  are  diversified  -by  more  or  less  imagination 
and  reasoning  power,  and  are  greatly  influenced  by  early  impres- 
sions. Accordingly,  it  is  very  rarely  that  we  find  two  individuals 
who  think  precisely  alike  on  any  subject.  Even  in  the  same 
person  opinions  constantly  change.  Their  formation  originally 
depends  upon  the  peculiar  traits  of  mind  with  which  the  indi- 
vidual is  endowed.  His  peculiar  moral  and  mental  experience 
afterwards  modifies  them,  so  that,  except  as  far  ad  faithful  inquiry 
goes,  he  is  not  responsible  in  the  premises.  We  must  then  look 
to  the  heart,  the  native  disposition,  the  feelings,  if  we  would 
really  know  a  man.  Thus  regarded,  Shelley  has  few  equals. 
Speculatively  he  may  have  been  an  Atheist ;  in  his  inmost  soul 
he  was  a  Christian.  This  may  appear  paradoxical,  but  I  believe 
it  is  more  frequently  the  case  than  we  are  aware.  An  inquiring, 
argumentative  mind,  may  often  fail  in  attaining  settled  convic- 
tions ;  while  at  the  same  time  the  moral  nature  is  so  true  and 
active,  that  the  heart,  as  Wordsworth  says,  may  4  do  God's  word 
and  know  it  not.'  Thus  I  believe  it  was  with  Shelley.  Venera- 
tion was  his  predominant  sentiment.  His  biographer  and  intimate 
friend,  Leigh  Hunt,  says  of  him,  'He  was  pious  towards  nature — 
towards  his  friends — towards  the  whole  human  race — towards  the 
meanest  insect  of  the  forest.'  He  did  himself  an  injustice  with 
the  public  in  using  the  popular  name  of  the  Supreme  Being  in- 
considerately.   He  identified  it  solely  with  the  most  tyrannical 


152 


THOUGHTS  ON  THE  POETS. 


notions  of  God,  made  after  the  worst  human  fashion  ;  and  did  not 
sufficiently  reflect  that  it  was  often  used  by  a  juster  devotion  to 
express  a  sense  of  the  Great  Mover  of  the  Universe.  An 
impatience  in  contradicting  worldly  and  pernicious  notions 
of  a  supernatural  power,  led  his  own  aspirations  to  be  mis- 
construed. As  has  been  justly  remarked  by  a  writer  eminent 
for  his  piety — *  the  greatest  want  of  religious  feeling  is  not 
to  be  found  among  the  greatest  infidels,  but  among  those 
who  only  think  of  religion  as  a  matter  of  course.'  The 
more  important  the  proposition,  the  more  he  trtought  him- 
self bound  to  investigate  it ;  the  greater  the  demand  upon  his  as- 
sent, the  less  upon  their  own  principles  of  reasoning  he  thought 
himself  bound  to  grant  it."  Logical  training  was  the  last  to  which 
such  a  nature  as  Shelley's  should  have  been  subjected.  Under 
this  discipline  at  Oxford,  he  viewed  all  subjects  through  the  me- 
dium of  mere  reason.  Exceedingly  fond  of  argument,  in  a  spirit 
of  adventurous  boldness  he  turned  the  weapons  furnished  him 
by  his  teachers,  against  the  venerable  form  of  Christianity,  and 
wrote  Queen  Mab.  Be  it  remembered,  however,  he  never  pub- 
lished it.  The  MS.  was  disposed  of  without  his  knowledge 
and  against  his  will.  Yet  at  this  very  time  his  fellow-student  tells 
us  that  Shelley  studied  fifteen  hours  a-day — lived  chiefly  upon 
bread,  in  order  to  save  enough  from  his  limited  income  to  assist 
poor  scholars — stopped  in  his  long  walks  to  give  an  orange  to  a 
gipsey-boy,  or  purchase  milk  for  a  destitute  child — talked  con- 
stantly of  plans  for  the  amelioration  of  society — was  roused  tu  the 
warmest  indignation  by  every  casual  instance  of  oppression — yield- 
ed up  his  whole  soul  to  the  admiration  of  moral  excellence — and 
worshipped  truth  in  every  form  with  a  singleness  of  heart,  and  an 
ardour  of  feeling,  as  rare  as  it  was  inspiring.  He  was,  according 
to  the  same  and  kindred  testimony,  wholly  unaffected  in  manner, 
full  of  genuine  modesty,  and  possessed  by  an  insatiable  thirst  for 
knowledge.  Although  a  devoted  student,  his  heart  was  unchilled 
by  mental  application.  He  at  that  time  delighted  in  the  Platonic 
doctrine  of  the  pre-existence  of  the  soul,  and  loved  to  believe 
that  all  knowledge  now  acquired  is  but  reminiscence.  Gentle  and 
affectionate  to  all,  benevolent  to  a  fault,  and  deeply  loved  by  all 
who  knew  him,  it  was  his  misfortune  to  have  an  early  experience 
of  ill,  to  be  thrown  rudely  upon  the  world — to  be  misunderstood 
and  slandered,  and  especially  to  indulge  the  wild  speculations  of 
an  ardent  mind  without  the  slightest  worldly  pruden  ce.  Shelley, 
phrenologically  speaking,  had  no  organ  of  cautiousness.  Hence 


SHELLEY. 


153 


his  virtues  and  graces  availed  him  not  in  the  world,  much  as  they 
endeared  him  to  those  who  enjoyed  his  intimacy.  In  these  re- 
marks I  would  not  be  misunderstood.  I  do  not  subscribe  to  Shel- 
ley's opinions.  I  regret  that  he  thought  as  he  did  upon  many  sub- 
jects for  his  own  sake  as  well  as  for  that  of  society.  The  great 
mass  of  his  poetry  is  not  congenial  to  my  taste.  And  yet  these 
considerations  do  not  blind  me  to  the  rare  quality  of  his  genius — 
to  the  native  independence  of  his  mind — to  the  noble  aspirations 
after  the  beautiful  and  the  true,  which  glowed  in  his  soul.  I  ho- 
nour Shelley  as  that  rare  character — a  sincere  man.  I  venerate 
his  generous  sentiments.  I  recognize  in  him  qualities  which  I 
seldom  find  among  the  passive  recipients  of  opinion — the  tame  fol- 
lowers of  routine.  I  know  how  much  easier  it  is  to  conform  pru- 
dently to  social  institutions  ;  but,  as  far  as  my  experience  goes, 
they  are  full  of  error,  and  do  great  injustice  to  humanity.  I  res- 
pect the  man  who  in  sincerity  of  purpose  discusses  their  claims, 
even  if  I  cannot  coincide  in  his  views.  Nor  is  this  all.  I  cannot 
lose  sight  of  the  fact,  that  Shelley's  nature  is  but  partially  reveal- 
ed to  us.  We  have  as  it  were,  a  few  stray  gleams  of  his  wayward 
orb.  Had  it  fully  risen  above  the  horizon  instead  of  being  prema- 
turely quenched  in  the  sea,  perchance  its  beams  would  have  clear- 
ly reflected  at  last,  the  holy  effulgence  of  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 
Let  us  pity,  if  we  will,  the  errors  of  Shelley's  judgment ;  but  let 
not  preiudice  blind  us  to  his  merits.  "  His  life,"  says  his  wife, 
"  was  spent  in  arduous  study,  and  in  acts  of  kindness  and  affection. 
To  see  him  was  to  love  him."  Surely  there  is  a  redeeming  worth 
in  the  memory  of  one  whose  bosom  was  ever  ready  to  support  the 
weary  brow  of  a  brother — whose  purposes  were  high  and  true — 
whose  heart  was  enamoured  of  beauty,  and  devoted  to  his  race : 

 if  this  fail, 

The  pillared  firmaneut  is  rottenness, 
And  earth's  base  built  on  stubble. 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


If  the  productions  of  an  author  afford  an  insight  into 
his  character,  we  cannot  but  infer  that  Leigh  Hunt  is,  in 
many  respects,  a  delightful  man.  The  writings,  from 
which  this  inference  is  drawn,  form,  probably,  but  a  small 
proportion  of  the  poet's  compositions  ;  still  they  are  suffi- 
cient to  convey  a  very  definite  impression,  and  afford 
ample  basis  for  illustrative  remark.  We  are  espe- 
cially justified  in  such  a  view  from  the  fact  that  one,  and 
by  no  means  the  least  attractive  of  them,  is  a  charming 
bit  of  autobiography,  which  gives  the  reader  as  fair  a 
view  of  Mr.  Hunt's  heart,  and  an  epoch  or  two  of  his 
life,  as  is  afforded  by  the  memoirs  of  Carlo  Goldoni, 
which  some  critic  has  affirmed  are  more  amusing  than 
any  of  his  comedies.  The  ancestral  qualities  of  Leigh 
Hunt  are  truly  enviable.  His  father  descended  from  a 
line  of  West-India  gentlemen,  and  his  mother  was  the 
daughter  of  a  Pennsylvania  Quaker.  Here  was  a  fine 
mixture  of  tropical  ardour  and  friendly  placidity — of  cordial 
gentility  and  prudent  reserve — of  careless  cheerfulness 
and  sober  method.  Both  his  parents  were  intellectually 
disposed  ;  and  his  mother  was  partly  won  by  her  lover's 
fine  readings  of  the  English  poets,  which  the  son  truly 
describes  as  "  a  noble  kind  of  courtship."  The  paternal 
inheritance  of  the  young  author  was  like  the  revenue  of 
Horatio — a  fund  of  "  good-spirits  ;"  and  apparently  they 
have  enabled  him,  like  Hamlet's  friend,  to  take  fortune's 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


155 


frowns  and  smiles  "  with  equal  thanks."  He  was,  indeed, 
early  inured  to  the  experience  of  ill ;  but  happily,  certain 
mental  antidotes  were  ever  at  hand  to  mitigate  the  power 
of  evil.  His  first  recollections  are  associated  with  the 
pecuniary  embarrassments  of  his  family,  and  a  prison 
witnessed  the  sports  of  his  childhood.  "  We  struggled 
pn,"  he  says,  '  between  quiet  and  disturbance,  placid  read- 
ings and  frightful  knocks  at  the  door,  sickness  and  calam- 
ity, and  hopes  that  hardly  ever  forsook  us." 

It  is  very  .obvious,  from  his  truly  filial  portrait,  that  the 
poet's  mother  had,  if  any  thing,  more  than  an  average 
share  in  giving  a  decided  bias  to  his  taste.  She  was  a 
true  lover  of  books  and  nature  ;  and  encouraged  her  son's 
poetic  and  literary  tendencies  in  the  sweetest  manner. 
She  treasured  his  early  rhymes,  carried  them  about  her 
person,  and  exhibited  them  to  their  intimate  friends  with 
maternal  pride.  What  a  pleasing  reminiscence  must  this 
have  been  to  the  poet  in  after  life — how  much  better  than 
a  contrary  course  !  What  an  influence  it  must  have  had  in 
confirming  his  devotion  to  truth,  his  love  of  beauty,  his 
superiority  to  the  world's  idols  !  According  to  his  own 
confessions,  written  in  the  prime  of  life,  poetry ;  by  which 
we  mean  the  loveliness  of  external  nature,  the  true 
delights  of  society  and  affection,  the  creations  of  genius  ; 
all  in  short  that  redeems  existence  and  refreshes  the  soul 
— ha§  been  the  chief  solace  of  his  days.  It  has  support- 
ed him  in  captivity,  it  has  soothed  the  irritation  of  pain, 
it  has  made  an  humble  lot  independent,  it  has  woven 
delightful  ties  with  the  good  and  the  gifted,  and  bestowed 
wings  on  which  he  has  soared  to  commune  with  immor- 
tals. In  how  many  bosoms  has  the  same  ethereal  instinct 
been  extinguished  by  disdain !  We  cannot  but  recall 
what  has  often  been  quoted  as  a  witticism  by  certain  prac- 
tical wiseacres — "  that  every  youth  is  expected  to  have 
Jie  poetical  disease  once  in  his  life  as  he-haj  the  measles, 


156 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


and  his  friends  rejoice  when  it  is  fairly  over."  It  is  such 
inhuman  maxims,  as  far  removed  even  from  the  philoso- 
phy of  common-sense  as  they  are  from  that  of  truth,  that 
blight  the  flowers  of  humanity  in  the  bud.  Unfortunate- 
ly they  are  too  common  among  us.  It  was  not  the  in- 
trinsic merit  so  much  as  the  spirit  and  the  promise  of  her 
son's  juvenile  efforts,  that  the  discerning  heart  of  the 
mother  applauded.  Who  can  estimate  the  effect  such 
sacred  approval  exerted  ?  Perchance  it  made  holy  and 
permanent  to  that  young  mind  what  was  before  only 
regarded  as  an  agreeable  pastime.  Not  for  the  prospect 
of  fame  it  suggested,  was  that  sanction  valuable,  but  be- 
cause of  the  dawning  sentiment  it  cherished,  the  lofty 
aims  it  prompted,  the  elevated  tastes  to  which  it  gave 
strength  and  nurture.  Had  Leigh  Hunt  never  written  a 
decent  couplet  afterwards,  this  course  would  have  been 
equally  praiseworthy.  Poetical  traits  of  mind  are  fre- 
quently unallied  with  felicitous  powers  of  expression. 
Their  value  to  the  individual,  are  not  on  this  account 
essentially  diminished.  Through  them  is  he  to  sympa- 
thize with  the  grand  and  lovely  in  literature,  with  the 
beautiful  in  creation,  and  the  heroic  in  life.  One  early 
word  of  scorn  thoughtlessly  cast  from  revered  lips,  upon 
the  unfolding  sensibility  to  the  poetical,  may  turn  aside 
into  darkness  the  clearest  stream  of  the  soul,  may  blast 
the  germ  of  the  richest  flower  on  the  highway  of  Time. 

Our  self-biographer  makes  sufficiently  light  of  his  boy- 
ish offerings  to  the  muses,  but  never  for  a  moment  loses 
his  reverence  for  their  trophies,  or  his  thirst  for  their  in- 
spiration. It  is  evident  that  these  feelings  are  the  source 
of  much  of  his  cheerful  philosophy  ;  and  that  they  have 
kept  alive  his  attachment  to  imaginative  literature,  his 
fondness  for  moral  pleasure,  his  eye  for  the  picturesque 
in  every  day  life,  and  his  soul  for  genial  society.  The 
truly  poetical  heart  never  grows  old.    "  It  is  astonishing," 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


157 


remarks  our  author,  in  speaking  of  an  aged  friend  of  his 
youth,  "  how  long  a  cordial  pulse  will  keep  playing,  if 
allowed  reasonably  to  have  its  way/'  The  world  wears, 
like  dropping  water,  upon  the  prosaic  mind,  till  it  becomes 
petrified  and  cold.  But  whosoever  has  earnestly  embra- 
ced the  opposite  creed,  shall  never  fail  to  see  in  his  kind 
something  to  cheer  and  to  interest,  as  well  as  to  repel  and 
disgust.  Let  us  hear  again  the  testimony  of  one  whose 
education  was  poetical :  "  Great  disappointment  and  ex- 
ceeding viciousness  may  talk  as  they  please  of  the  bad- 
ness of  human  nature  ;  for  my  part,  I  am  on  the  verge  of 
forty;  I  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  the  world,  the  dark 
side  as  well  as  the  light,  and  I  say  that  human  nature  is 
a  very  good  and  kindly  thing,  and  capable  of  all  sorts  of 
excellence." 

After  awaking  from  his  boyhood's  dream  of  authorship, 
Leigh  Hunt  turned  his  talents  to  account  as  a  journalist. 
He  began  by  writing  theatrical  criticisms — the  attraction 
of  which  was  their  perfect  independence,  no  small  nov- 
elty at  the  period.  The  habit  of  thinking  for  himself, 
according  to  his  own  account,  was  another  blessing  to 
which  he  was  legitimate  heir.  It  is  traceable  in  his  lit- 
erary opinions,  which  have  an  air  of  perfect  individuality, 
and  in  his  theory  of  versification.  Such  a  characteristic, 
one  of  the  noblest  to  which  our  times  give  scope,  soon 
brought  the  adventurous  writer  into  difficulty.  He  and 
his  brother,  the  joint  proprietors  of  the  "  Examiner," 
were  prosecuted  for  a  libel  on  the  Prince-Regent.  They 
would  not,  as  a  matter  of  principle,  allow  their  friends  to 
pay  the  fine  adjudged,  and  accordingly  went  to  prison. 
Of  this  event  we  have  a  very  graphic  account  in  the  bio- 
graphical sketch.  Here  too  was  the  bard  followed  by  his 
better  angel  as  well  as  his  wife.  Though  deprived  of 
liberty  just  at  the  moment  the  state  of  his  health  rendered 
it  most  valuable,  though  at  first  disturbed  by  sights  and 


158 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


sounds  of  human  misery,  and  sometimes  afflicted  with 
illness  and  depression,  yet  he  managed  to  fit  up  his 
room  charmingly,  to  arrange  a  garden,  to  read  and  make 
verses,  besides  being  consoled  by  the  presence  of  his 
family  and  the  visits  of  his  friends.  Indeed  when  we 
think  of  the  rare  spirits  whose  converse  brightened  his 
confinement,  we  can  almost  envy  him  a  captivity,  which 
brought  such  glorious  freedom  to  his  better  nature,  such 
mountain  liberty  to  mind  and  heart. 

Some  of  his  epistles  contain  striking  proofs  of  the 
pleasure  with  which  he  reverted  to  these  kind  attentions. 
At  the  close  of  one  to  Byron,  he  expresses  his  grateful 
recollection  of 

"  that  frank  surprise,  when  Moore  and  you 
Came  to  my  cage,  like  warblers,  kind  and  true, 
And  told  me,  with  your  arts  of  cordial  lying, 
How  well  I  looked,  although  you  thought  me  dying." 

And  in  another  to  Charles  Lamb,  he  says : 

"  You'll  guess  why  I  can't  see  the  snow-covered  streets, 
Without  thinking  of  you  and  your  visiting  feats, 
When  you  call  to  remembrance  how  you  and  one  more 
When  I  wanted  it  most,  used  to  knock  at  my  door; 
And  leaving  the  world  to  the  fogs  and  the  fighters, 
We  discussed  the  pretensions  of  all  sorts  of  writers." 

Soon  after  his  liberation,  Mr.  Hunt  visited  Italy.  De- 
spite of  some  pleasing  references  in  his  narrative  of  this 
absence,  it  is  but  too  evident  that  ill-health  and  domestic 
cares  prevented  the  poet  from  thoroughly  appreciating 
the  charms  of  Tuscany.  To  these  causes,  and  strong 
home  partialities,  it  is  just  to  ascribe  those  somewhat 
unreasonable  regrets,  for  meadows,  green  lanes  and  large 
trees,  which  appear  in  his  journal.  Indeed  the  writer 
hints  as  much  himself.  A  wretched  winter  voyage,  and 
the  melancholy  loss  of  a  generous  friend,  must  have  con- 
tributed to  throw  many  gloomy  associations  around  this 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


159 


period  of  his  life.  Like  many  an  invalid  with  active 
endowments,  Leigh  Hunt  has  since  continued  to  live, 
and  we  doubt  not,  in  a  good  measure,  to  enjoy  life.  He 
is  the  father  of  a  large  family,  and  pursues  his  literary 
avocations  with  tasteful  devotion.  Within  a  short  time 
he  has  produced  a  successful  play ;  and  the  last  result  of 
*  his  labours  that  has  come  to  our  knowledge,  is  a  new 
edition  of  some  of  the  old  dramatists. 

At  the  outset  of  his  career,  his  ambition  was  to  excel 
as  a  bard.  His  principal  success,  however,  seems  chiefly 
to  lay  in  a  certain  vein  of  essay-writing,  in  which  fancy 
and  familiarity  are  delightfully  combined.  Still  he  has 
woven  many  rhymes  that  are  not  only  sweet  and  cheer- 
ful, but  possess  a  peculiar  grace  and  merit  of  their  own, 
besides  illustrating  some  capital  ideas  relative  to  poetical 
diction  and  influence.  They  are,  to  be  sure,  deformed 
by  some  offences  against  the  dignity  of  the  muse,  in  the 
shape  of  affectations  and  far-fetched  conceits.  It  is  diffi- 
cult, if  not  impossible,  to  become  reconciled  to  such  epi- 
thets as  "  kneadingly,"  "  lumpishly,"  "  surfy  massive- 
ness,"  "  waviness"  and  others  of  a  like  character, 
however  applied ;  and  it  quite  spoils  our  conception  of  a 
nymph,  to  read  of  her  "  side-long  hips,"  and  her 

"  Smooth,  down-arching  thigh, 
Tapering  with  tremulous  mass  internally." 

But  such  blemishes  cannot  render  the  discerning  reader 
insensible  to  his  frequent  touches  of  felicitous  description 
and  gleams  of  delightful  fancy.  A  kindly  tone  of  fel- 
lowship and  a  quick  relish  of  delight,  give  a  fascinating 
interest  to  much  of  his  verse.  He  has  aimed  to  make 
poetry  more  frank  and  social,  to  set  aside  the  formal 
mannerism  of  stately  rhyme,  and  introduce  a  more 
friendly  and  easy  style.  He  eschews  the  ultra-artificial, 
and  has  frequently  succeeded  in  giving  a  spontaneous 
flow  and  airy  freedom  to  his  lines,  without  neglecting" 


160 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


beauty  of  thought,  or  degenerating  into  carelessness. 
This  is  an  uncommon  achievement.  There  is  a  species 
of  verse  between  the  song  and  the  poem,  combining  the 
sparkling  life  of  the  one  with  the  elaborate  imagery  of 
the  other,  uniting  an  extemporaneous  form  with  a  studied 
material.  In  this  department  Mr.  Hunt  is  no  common 
proficient.  He  sometimes  indeed  carries  playful  simpli- 
city too  far.  It  would  require,  for  instance,  a  large 
t  development  of  philoprogenitiveness  to  beget  a  zest  for 
"  Little  ranting  Johnny ;"  but  the  Lines  to  a  Musical 
Box,  are  as  pretty  as  the  instrument  they  celebrate : 

"  It  really  seems  as  if  a  sprite 
Had  struck  among  us  swift  and  light, 
And  come  from  some  minuter  star 
To  treat  us  with  his  pearl  guitar." 

So  the  little  poem  to  one  of  his  young  children  during 
illness,  is  a  gem  of  its  kind  : 

"  Sleep  breathes  at  last  from  out  thee, 

My  little  patient  boy  ; 
And  balmy  rest  about  thee 

Smooths  off  the  day's  annoy, 
I  sit  me  down  and  think 

Of  all  thy  winning  ways  ; 
Yet  almost  wish  with  sudden  shrink, 

That  I  had  less  to  praise." 

The  piece  being  addressed  to  a  boy  six  years  old, 
should  of  course  be  simply  expressed  ;  and  I  have  heard 
fathers  praise  it,  which  is  proof  enough  of  its  cleverness. 
Mr.  Hunt  is  an  advocate  for  the  poetry  of  cheerfulness. 
He  heartily  recognizes  the  bright  spirit  of  the  Grecian 
bards,  and  the  light  hearts  that  gushed  in  song  in  the 
"  merry  days''  of  England.  He  is  no  friend  to  over-spe- 
culation or  laborious  rhyming.  He  thinks  we  are  de- 
signed "  to  enjoy  more  than  to  know,"  and  evokes  his 
muse  to  celebrate  the  "  sunny  side  of  things,"  to  help  him 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


161 


pass  a  happy  hour,  or  give  those  he  loves  an  agreeable 
surprise.  He  affords. us  a  view  of  his  philosophy,  in  an 
epistle  to  Hazlitt,  which,  cheering  as  it  is,  savours  of  the 
latitude  of  his  Barbadoes  ancestors  rather  than  that  of 
London,  and  has  more  of  the  imaginative  Southern  gen- 
tleman about  it  than  the  American  Quaker : 

"  One's  life,  I  conceive,  might  go  prettily  down 
In  a  due,  easy  mixture  of  country  and  town  ; — 
Not  after  the  fashion  of  most  with  two  houses, 
Who  gossip  and  gape  and  just  follow  their  spouses, 
And  let  their  abode  be  wherever  it  will, 
Are  the  same  vacant,  housekeeping  animals  still ; 
But  with  due  sense  of  each,  and  of  all  that  it  yields, — 
In  the  town,  of  the  town, — in  the  fields,  of  the  fields. 
To  tell  you  the  truth, I  could  spend  very  well 
Whole  mornings  in  this  way  'twixt  here  and  Pall  Mall, 
And  make  my  glove's  fingers  as  black  as  my  hat, 
In  pulling  the  books  up  from  this  stall  and  that ; — 
Then  turning  home  gently  through  field  and  o'er  stile, 
Partly  reading  a  purchase,  or  rhyming  the  while, 
Take  my  dinner  (to  make  a  long  evening)  at  two, 
With  a  few  droppers-in,  like  my  cousin  and  you, 
Who  can  season  the  talk  with  the  right-flavoured  attic, 
Too  witty  for  tattling,  too  wise  for  dogmatic ; — 
Then  take  down  an  author  whom  one  of  us  mentions, 
And  doat,  for  awhile,  on  his  jokes  or  inventions  ; 
Then  have  Mozart  touched,  on  our  battle's  completion, 
Or  one  of  your  fav'rite  trim  ballads  Venetian  : — 
Then  up  for  a  walk  before  tea,  down  a  valley, 
And  so  to  come  back  through  a  leafy-wall'd  alley  ; 
Then  tea  made  by  one  (although  my  wife  she  be) 
If  Jove  were  to  drink  it,  would  soon  be  his  Hebe; 
Then  silence  a  little, — a  creeping  twilight, — 
Then  an  egg  for  your  supper,  with  lettuces  white, 
And  a  moon  and  friend's  arm  to  go  home  with  at  night  " 

Mr.  Hunt's  ablest  production  in  verse,  is  the  story  of 
Rimini.    It  is  an  attempt  to  convey  an  affecting  narra- 
tive through  the  medium  of  more  idiomatic  cast  of 
language  and  freer  versification,  than  is  common  to  Eng- 
10 


162 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


1  sh  poetry.  Thus  regarded,  it  may  justly  be  pronounced 
a  highly  successful  poem.  Open  to  criticism,  as  it  un- 
questionably is  considered  abstractly,  when  viewed  with 
reference  to  the  author's  theory,  and  judged  by  its  own 
law,  no  reader  of  taste  and  sensibility  can  hesitate  to 
approve  as  well  as  admire  its  execution.  The  poet 
seems  to  have  caught  the  very  spirit  of  his  scene.  The 
tale  is  presented,  as  we  might  imagine  it  to  have  flowed 
from  an  improvisatore.  Its  tone  is  singularly  familiar 
and  fanciful.  It  is  precisely  such  a  poem  as  we  love  to 
read  under  the  trees  on  a  summer  afternoon,  or  in  a  gar- 
den by  moonlight.  All  appearance  of  effort  in  the  con- 
struction is  concealed.  Some  of  the  descriptive  passages 
are  perfect  pictures,  and  the  sentiment  is  portrayed  by  a 
feeling  hand.  We  can  easily  imagine  the  cool  contempt 
with  which  a  certain  class  of  critics  would  regard  this 
little  work.  They  would  rank  it  with  the  music  of  un- 
fledged warblers,  and,  from  the  absence  of  certain  very 
formal  and  decided  traits,  confidently  assign  it  "  an  im- 
mortality of  near  a  week."  But  there  are  some  rare  feli- 
cities in  this  unpretending  poem  which  will  always  be 
appreciated.  It  will  touch  and  please  many  a  young 
heart  yet ;  and  have  its  due  influence  in  letting  down  the 
stilted  style  of  more  assuming  rhymers.  The  descrip- 
tion of  the  procession  in  the  first  canto,  is  very  spirited 
and  true  to  life.  We  can  almost  see  the  gaily-adorned 
knights  and  prancing  horses,  and  hear 

"  Their  golden  bits  keep  wrangling  as  they  go." 
We  can  almost  behold  the  expectant  princess,  as 

"  with  an  impulse  and  affection  free 

She  lays  her  hand  upon  her  father's  knee, 
Who  looks  upon  her  with  a  laboured  smile, 
Gathering  it  up  into  his  own  the  while." 

And  we  mentally  join  in  the  greetings  of  the  multitude, 
when  Paulo 


LEIGH  HUNT. 


163 


"  on  a  milk-white  courser,  like  the  air, 

A  glorious  figure,  springs  into  the  square." 

The  appearance  of  the  hero  is  painted  most  vividly  to 
the  eye,  as  is  the  bride's  journey  to  Rimini ;  and  through 
out,  there  is  a  zest  and  beauty  of  imagery,  that  is  redo- 
lent of  the  "  sweet  south."  The  consummation  of  the 
"  fatal  passion,"  is  admirably  and  poetically  traced.  The 
author  acknowledges  his  obligations  to  Dante  for  the  last 
touch  to  the  picture.  The  passage  will  give  a  fair  idea 
of  the  poet's  manner.  The  heroine  is  in  her  favourite 
bower,  where — 

"  Ready  she  sat  with  one  hand  to  turn  o'er 
The  leaf,  to  which  her  thoughts  ran  on  before, 
The  other  propping  her  white  brow  and  throwing 
Its  ringlets  out,  under  the  skylight  glowing, 
So  sat  she  fixed ;  and  so  observed  was  she 
Of  one  who  at  the  door  stood  tenderly, — 
Paulo, — who  from  a  window  seeing  her 
Go  straight  across  the  lawn,  and  guessing  where, 
Had  thought  she  was  in  tears,  and  found,  that  day, 
His  usual  efforts  vain  to  keep  away. 
*May  I  come  in  ?'  said  he  :  it  made  her  start, — 
That  smiling  voice  ;  she  coloured,  pressed  her  heart 
A  moment,  as  for  breath,  and  then  with  free 
And  usual  tone,  said,  '  0  yes, — certainly.' 
There's  apt  to  be  at  conscious  times  like  these, 
An  affectation  of  a  bright-eyed  ease, 
An  air  of  something  quite  serene  and  sure, 
As  if  to  seem  so,  was  to  be,  secure. 
With  this  the  lovers  met,  with  this  they  spoice, 
With  this  they  sat  down  to  the  self-same  book 
And  Paulo  by  degrees  gently  embraced 
With  one  permitted  arm  her  lovely  waist ; 
And  both  their  cheeks,  like  peaches  on  a  tree, 
Leaned  with  a  touch  together,  thrillingly ; 
And  o'er  the  book  they  hung  and  nothing  said, 
And  every  page  grew  longer  as  they  read, 
As  thus  they  sat,  and  felt  with  leaps  of  heart 
Their  colour  change,  they  came  upon  a  part 
Where  fond  Ginevra,  with  her  flame  long  nurst, 


164 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Smiled  upon  Launcelot  when  he  kissed  her  first : 
That  touch  at  last  through  every  fibre  slid  ; 
And  Paulo  turned  scarce  knowing  what  he  did, 
Only  he  felt  he  could  no  more  dissemble, 
And  kissed  her  mouth  to  mouth  all  in  a  tremble. 
Sad  were  those  hearts,  and  sweet  was  that  long  kiss  : 
Sacred  be  love  from  sight  whate'er  it  is, 
The  world  was  all  forgot,  the  struggle  o'er, 
Desperate  their  joy. — That  day  they  read  no  more." 

Whatever  may  be  deemed  the  success,  as  that  term  is 
popularly  used,  of  Leigh  Hunt,  in  literature,  he  may 
claim  the  happy  distinction  of  interesting  his  readers  in 
himself.  Let  critics  pick  as  many  flaws  as  they  will,  the 
pervading  good-nature  and  poetic  feeling  of  the  author  of 
Rimini,  will  ever  be  recognized.  In  an  age  like  our 
own,  it  is  no  small  triumph  for  a  writer  to  feel,  that,  both 
in  practice  and  precept,  he  has  advocated  a  cheerful  phi- 
losophy ;  that  he  has  celebrated  the  (fharms  of  refined 
friendship,  the  unworn  attractiveness  of  fields  and  flowers, 
the  true  amenities  of  social  life,  and  the  delights  of  ima- 
ginative literature.  The  spirit  of  our  author's  life  and 
writings,  like  that  of  his  friend  Lamb,  is  cheering  and 
beautiful.  He  manifests  a  liberal  and  candid  heart.  His 
influence  is  benign  and  genial  ;  and  the  thought  of  him, 
even  to  the  strangers  to  his  person  on  this  side  of  the 
ocean,  is  kindly  and  refreshing. 


BYRON. 


Three  thousand  copies  of  Byron's  poems  are  sold 
annually  in  this  country.  Such  a  fact  affords  sufficient 
reason  for  hazarding  some  remarks  on  a  theme  which 
may  well  be  deemed  exhausted.  "  My  dear  sir,"  said 
Dr.  Johnson,  "  clear  your  mind  of  cant."  This  process 
is  essential  to  a  right  appreciation  of  Byron.  No  indi- 
vidual, perhaps,  ever  more  completely  "  wore  his  heart 
upon  his  sleeve"  and  no  heart  was  ever  more  thoroughly 
pecked  at  by  the  daws.  The  moral  aspect  of  the  poet's 
claims  has  never  been  fairly  understood.  No  small  class 
of  well-meaning  persons  avoid  his  works  as  if  they 
breathed  contagion  ;  whereas  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  a 
poet  whose  good  and  evil  influence  are  more  distinctly 
marked.  The  weeds  and  flowers,  the  poisonous  gums 
and  "  roses  steeped  in  dew,"  are  not  inextricably  min- 
gled in  the  garden  of  his  verse.  The  same  frankness 
and  freedom  that  marked  his  life,  is  evident  in  his  pro- 
ductions. It  is  unjust  to  call  Byron  insidious.  The  sen- 
timents he  unveils  are  not  to  be  misunderstood.  They 
appear  in  bold  relief,  and  he  who  runs  may  read.  There 
is,  therefore,  a  vast  deal  of  cant  in  much  that  is  said  of 
the  moral  perversion  of  the  poet.  Where  he  is  inspired 
by  low  views,  the  darkness  of  the  fountain  tinges  the 
whole  stream;  and  where  he  yields  to  the  love  of  the 
beautiful,  it  is  equally  apparent.  There  are  those  who 
would  cut  off  the  young  from  all  acquaintance  with  his 


166 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


works,  because  they  are  sometimes  degraded  by  unworthy 
ideas  or  too  truly  reflect  some  of  the  dark  epochs  of  his 
life.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  the  mind  that  cannot  dis- 
criminate between  the  genuine  poetry  and  the  folly  and 
vice  of  these  writings,  will  be  unsafe  amid  the  moral 
exposure  of  all  life  and  literature.  Indeed,  there  can 
scarcely  be  conceived  a  book  at  once  more  melancholy 
and  more  moral  than  Moore's  Life  of  Byron.  It  deline- 
tes  the  vain  and  wretched  endeavours  of  a  gifted  spirit 
to  find  in  pleasure  what  virtue  alone  can  give.  It  por- 
trays a  man  of  great  sensibility,  generous  impulses  and 
large  endowments,  attempting  to  live  without  settled  prin- 
ciple, and  be  happy  without  exalted  hopes.  There  is  no 
more  touching  spectacle  in  human  life.  Genius  is  always 
attractive  ;  but  when  allied  to  great  errors  it  gives  a  les- 
son to  the  world  beyond  the  preacher's  skill.  What  aw- 
ful hints  lurk  in  the  affected  badinage  of  Byron's  journal 
and  letters  '  What  an  idea  do  they  convey  of  mental 
struggles  !  After  reading  one  of  his  poems,  how  signifi- 
cant a  moral  is  his  own  confession  :  "  I  have  written  this 
to  wring  myself  from  reality."  And  when  he  was  expos- 
tulated with  for  the  misanthropic  colouring  of  his  longest 
and  best  poems,  who  can  fail  to  look  "  more  in  pity  than 
in  anger,"  upon  the  bard  when  he  declares  "  I  feel  you 
are  right,  but  I  also  feel  that  I  am  sincere." 

The  apparent  drift  of  Byron's  versified  logic  is  skepti- 
cism. He  continually  preaches  hopelessness  ;  but  the  ac- 
tual effect  of  his  poetry  seems  to  me  directly  the  reverse. 
No  bard  more  emphatically  illustrates  the  absolute  need 
we  all  have  of  love  and  truth.  His  very  wailing  is  more 
significant  than  the  rejoicing  of  tamer  minstrels.  No 
one  can  intelligently  commune  with  his  musings  and 
escape  the  conviction  that  their  dark  hues  spring  from 
the  vain  endeavour  to  reconcile  error  and  the  soul.  By- 
ron's egotism,  his  identity  with  his  characters,  his  cyni- 


BYRON. 


167 


cism,  his  want  of  universality,  his  perverted  creed  and 
fevered  impulses  have  been  elaborately  unfolded  by  a 
host  of  critics.  The  indirect,  but  perhaps  not  less  effec- 
tive lessons  he  taught,  are  seldom  recognized.  The  cant 
of  criticism  has  blinded  many  to  the  noble  fervour  of  his 
lays  devoted  to  Nature  and  Freedom.  All  his  utterance  is 
not  sneering  and  sarcastic  ;  and  it  argues  a  most  unca- 
tholic  taste  to  stamp  with  a  single  epithet  compositions  so 
versatile  in  spirit.  It  is  curious  to  trace  the  caprice  which 
runs  through  the  habits  and  opinions  of  Byron.  It 
should  ever  be  borne  in  mind  in  contemplating  his  char- 
acter, that  in  many  respects  he  became,  or  tried  to  become, 
the  creature  which  the  world  made  him.  He  took  a  kind 
of  wicked  pleasure  in  adapting  himself  to  the  strange 
portraits  which  gossips  had  drawn.  Still,  with  all  due 
allowance  for  this  disposition,  the  views  and  acts  of  the 
poet  were  marked  by  the  various  contradictions  which 
entered  so  largely  into  his  nature  and  fortunes.  Compare, 
for  instance,  such  phrases  as  "  cash  is  virtue"  and  "  I 
like  a  row,"  with  some  of  his  deliberate  sentiments  em- 
bodied in  verse.  His  letters  to  Murray  alone  display  a 
constant  series  of  cross  directions.  Well  did  he  observe 
"lam  like  quicksilver  and  say  nothing  positively."  His 
opinions  on  the  subject  of  his  own  art  cannot  be  made 
to  coincide  with  each  other  or  with  his  own  practice. 
He  long  preferred  "  Hints  from  Horace"  to  the  first  two 
cantos  of  "  Childe  Harold,"  prided  himself  more  upon 
his  translations  of  Pulci  than  "  The  Corsair,"  and  declar- 
ed the  "  Prophecy  of  Dante"  the  best  thing  he  ever  wrote. 
He  over-estimated  Scott  and  Crabbe,  was  blind  to  the 
true  merit  of  Keats,  and  very  unreasonable  in  his  defer- 
ence to  Gifford.  He  charges  Campbell  with  underrating 
the  importance  of  local  authenticity  in  poetry  with  a 
view  to  protect  his  Gertrude  ^of  Wyoming;  without 
remembering  that  his  own  defence  of  Pope  was  induced 


168 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


by  a  motive  equally  selfish.  No  man  reasoned  more 
exclusively  from  individual  consciousness  or  was  oftener 
biased  by  personal  motives,  and  yet  when  the  Countess 
Guiccioli  begged  him  not  to  continue  Don  Juan,  he  com- 
plained that  it  was  only  because  the  production  threw 
ridicule  upon  sentiment,  which  it  was  a  woman's  interest 
to  sustain. 

There  is  a  kind  of  superstition  which  seems  the  legiti- 
mate result  of  sentiment.  The  idea  of  destiny  will  gen- 
erally be  found  to  exercise  a  powerful  sway  over  persons 
of  strong  feeling  and  vivid  fancy.  When  the  mind  is 
highly  excited  in  pursuit  of  a  particular  object,  or  the 
heart  deeply  interested  in  an  individual,  a  thousand 
vague  notions  haunt  the  thoughts.  Omens  and  presenti- 
ments, every  shadow  which  whispers  of  coming  events, 
every  emotion  which  appears  to  indicate  the  future 
is  eagerly  dwelt  upon  and  magnified.  Perhaps  such 
developments  are  the  natural  offspring  of  great  sensi- 
bility. They  are  certainly  often  found  in  combination 
with  rare  powers  of  intellect  and  great  force  of  character. 
Few  men  more  freely  acknowledged  their  influence  than 
Lord  Byron.  In  his  case  they  may  have  been,  in  some 
degree,  hereditary.  His  mother  was  credulous  in  the 
extreme  and  had  the  folly  to  take  her  son  to  a  fortune- 
teller. He  planted  a  tree  to  nourish  by  at  Nevvstead, 
and  found  it,  after  a  long  absence,  neglected  and  weedy. 
He  stole  a  bead  amulet  from  an  ill-defined  faith  in  its 
efficacy.  The  day  after  writing  his  fine  apostrophe  to 
Parnassus,  he  saw  a  flight  of  eagles,  and  hailed  the  inci- 
dent as  a  proof  that  Apollo  was  pleased.  When  leaving 
Venice,  after  he  had  put  on  his  cap  and  taken  his  cane, 
having  previously  embarked  his  effects,  an  inauspicious 
mood  overtook  him,  and  he  gave  orders  that  if  all  was 
not  ready  before  one  o'clock,  to  postpone  the  journey. 
He  re-called  a  gift  because  itbe-tokened  ill-luck,  and  turn- 


BYRON. 


169 


ed  back  from  a  visit  upon  remembering  that  it  was  Friday. 
He  even  sent  back  a  coat  which  a  tailor  brought  him  on 
that  day,  and  yet,  with  true  poetic  inconsistency,  sailed 
for  Greece  on  Friday.  He  cherished  the  most  melan- 
choly associations  in  regard  to  the  anniversaries  of  his  birth 
and  marriage,  and  had  many  strange  views  of  the  fate  of 
an  only  child.  But  the  most  remarkable  among  Byron's 
many  superstitious  ideas,  was  his  strong  presentiment  of 
an  early  death.  This  feeling  weighed  upon  him  so 
heavily  that  he  delayed  his  departure  from  Ravenna 
week  after  week,  in  the  hope  of  dissipating  so  sad  a  feel- 
ing before  engaging  in  his  Grecian  expedition ;  and 
when  stress  of  weather  obliged  him  to  return  to  port,  he 
spoke  of  the  "  bad  beginning"  as  ominous.  In  short,  he 
acknowledged  that  he  sometimes  believed  "  all  things  de- 
pend upon  fortune  and  nothing  upon  ourselves.1'  How 
far  this  tendency  to  fatalism  influenced  his  conduct  it 
would  be  difficult  to  ascertain.  But  opinions  of  this  na- 
ture, grafted  upon  a  constitutional  liability  to  depression, 
certainly  help  to  explain  many  of  the  anomalies  of  By- 
ron's character. 

The  physical  infirmities  of  the  poet  have  never  been 
sufficiently  considered.  No  one  can  read  his  account  of 
his  own  sensations  without  feeling  that  he  was  seldom  in 
health.  They  are  not  the  only  sufferers  who  labour  under 
specific  diseases,  the  ravages  of  which  are  obvious  to  the 
eye.  There  is  a  vast  amount  of  pain  and  uneasiness, 
even  of  a  corporeal  nature,  which  is  not  ranked  among 
the  legitimate  "  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to."  In  nervous 
persons  particularly,  how  numerous  are  the  trials  for 
which  science  has  discovered  no  remedy.  He  used  to 
*  fatigue  himself  into  spirits  ;"  and  always  rose  in  a  mel- 
ancholy humour  ;  and  constantly  talks  of  being  "  hip- 
pish"  and  of  his  liver  being  touched,  and  of  having  an 

"  old  feel."    He  fancied  that  like  Swift  he  should  "  die 

mm  . 


170 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


at  the  top,"  but  unlike  the  Dean,  he  professed  no  dread  of 
insanity,  but  declared  "  a  quiet  stage  of  madness  prefera- 
ble to  reason."  The  withered  trees  on  the  Alps  reminded 
him  of  his  family.  Often  in  the  presence  of  the  woman 
he  loved,  he  longed  for  the  solitude  of  his  study.  His 
restlessness,  his  frequent  and  rash  variations  of  habits  ; 
his  wild  course  of  diet,  on  certain  anniversaries  eating 
ham  and  drinking  ale,  though  thev  never  agreed  with 
him,  and  then  for  weeks  living  upon  biscuit  and  soda- 
water  ;  his  inclinations  for  violent  exercises  and  craving 
for  stimulants,  indicate  what  a  victim  he  was  to  morbid 
sensations.  Could  we  realize  the  suffering  incident  to 
such  a  constitution,  preyed  upon  as  it  was  by  an  irritable 
mind  and  desponding  temper,  how  much  should  we  find 
to  forgive  in  the  poet's  career!  We  cannot  but  agree 
with  one  of  his  biographers,  that  his  excesses  "  arose  from 
carelessness  and  pride  rather  than  taste."  We  must  bear 
in  mind  that  he  never  lost  a  friend,  or  cherished  his 
resentments;  and  take  in  view  that  singular  blindness 
which  rendered  him  skeptical  as  to  all  literary  influence 
upon  character  which  prompted  him  to  ask,  "  Who  was 
ever  altered  by  a  poem  ?"  His  charities  were  extensive  ; 
his  philanthropic  aims  sincere  and  noble.  "  Could  I 
have  anticipated,"  he  says  "  the  degree  of  attention  which 
has  been  accorded  me,  I  would  have  studied  more  to  de- 
serve it." 

When  we  attempt  to  group  together  the  trials  of  Byron, 
physical  and  moral,  we  find  an  array  which  claims,  not 
indeed  justification,  but  allowance  for  his  errors.  The 
weakness  of  her  character  to  whose  guidance  his  child- 
hood was  committed,  her  ungovernable  temper,  his  lame- 
ness, the  indifference  of  his  guardian,  the  homeless  years 
he  passed  between  Cambridge  and  London,  his  isolated 
position  upon  first  entering  the  House  of  Commons,  the 
ill-accordance  of  his  pecuniary  means  with  his  rank,  the 


BYRON. 


171 


unjust  criticism  that  his  first  early  efforts  elicited,  his  re- 
turn after  two  years'  travel  to  encounter  bereavements, 
which  induced  him  to  write — "at  three  and  twenty  I  am 
left  alone,  without  a  hope,  almost  without  a  desire ;  other 
men  can  take  refuge  in  their  families,  I  have  no  resource 
but  my  own  reflections  ;"  and,  to  crown  all,  his  unfortu- 
nate marriage  and  the  social  persecution  he  endured ; 
his  long  siege  of  bailiffs  and  domestic  spies — make  up  a 
catalogue  of  troubles  which  might  have  driven  a  meeker 
being  into  despairing  error.  But  he  was  acquainted 
through  the  whole  of  his  brief  life  with  a  grief  which, 
however  the  cynic  and  the  sage  may  sneer,  was  to  him  a 
real  and  wasting  sorrow.  His  affections  craved  an  object 
which  was  never  granted  them.  His  frequent  allusion  to 
his  boyish  love,  his  regrets  over  that  dream  when  "  both 
were  young  and  one  was  beautiful,"  his  capricious  am- 
ours on  the  continent,  mingled  with  the  ardent  longings 
with  which  his  poetry  overflows,  prove  him  to  have  been 
a  devotee  of  that  "  faith  whose  martyrs  are  a  broken 
heart."  This  unsatisfied  love  was  a  fountain  of  tender 
desire  in  his  bosom,  which  fertilized  and  softened  his  effu- 
sions, and  to  which  is  ascribable  their  most  pathetic 
touches.  It  is  in  seeking  an  "  ocean  for  the  river  of  his 
thoughts"  that  he  bears  so  many  hearts  along  in  the  rash 
bewildering  emotion. 

The  poetry  of  Byron  is  the  result  of  passion  and  re- 
flection. He  is  not  so  much  a  creator  as  a  painter,  and 
his  pictures  are  drawn  from  feeling  and  thought  rather 
than  nicety  of  observation.  "  I  can't  furbish,"  says  one 
of  his  letters.  "  I  am  like  the  tiger,  if  I  miss  the  first 
spring,  I  go  grumbling  back  to  my  jungle."  He 
gives  us,  as  it  were,  the  sensation  of  a  place  or  a 
passion.  Take,  for  instance,  such  epithets  as  "  the  blue 
rushing  of  the  arrowy  Rhone,"  and  "battle's  magnifi- 


172 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


cently-stern  array  " — how  vividly  do  they  make  us  sen- 
sible of  the  scenes  described  !  He  says  "  high  mountains 
are  a  feeling;1'  everything  in  the  universe  and  in  life 
which  appealed  to  his  sympathies  was  to  him  a  feeling. 
It  was  scarcely  allegorical  for  him  to  call  himself"  a  por- 
tion of  the  tempest,"  or  to  exclaim, 

"  I  live  not  in  myself,  but  1  become  a  portion  of  that  around 
lie  !" 

It  seems,  therefore,  very  irrational  for  the  admirers  of 
a  more  calm  and  descriptive  class  of  poets  to  moralise 
over  Byron's  feverish  style,  as  if  poetry  was  not  subject 
to  the  laws  of  mental  development.  He  might,  indeed, 
have  refrained  from  writing  or  publishing,  but  the  condi- 
tion upon  which  alone  his  mind  could  gush  forth  in  poe- 
try, was  that  its  fruits  should  bear  the  qualities  of  the 
man.  He  was  remarkably  susceptible  to  immediate  im- 
pressions, of  a  melancholic  disposition  and  earnest  feel- 
ings ;  and  these  traits  of  character  necessarily  coloured 
his  poetry  ;  indeed  it  owes  to  them  its  distinguishing 
beauties.  Through  them  he  was  placed  in  that  intimate 
relation  with  what  he  saw  that  enabled  him  to  give  us 
the  fervid  and  stirring  impressions  of  Childe  Harold  ;  to 
address  with  the  eloquence  of  profound  sympathy,  Parnas- 
sus and  Waterloo,  Greece  and  Lake  Leman,  Rome  and 
the  Ocean,  the  Apollo  and  Solitude,  the  Stars  and  the 
Dying  Gladiator.  "  I  could  not,"  he  says,  "  write  upon 
anything  without  some  personal  experience  for  a  founda- 
tion." 

The  career  of  this  impetuous,  but  in  more  than  one 
sense,  noble  being,  is  traced  in  his  works  most  clearly. 
The  very  poems  whose  influence  is  deemed  so  baneful, 
have  a  moral  eloquence  few  homilies  can  boast.  What 
lesson  has  human  life  so  impressive  as  the  wanderings  of 
genius  reflected  in  its  creations  ?  Turn  from  the  elevated 
beauty  of  Byron's  effusions  written  in  Switzerland,  amid 

falf+Titg     -     '         '  '  »     «5\  L.-  *  .» 


BYRON. 


173 


say,  "  dosed  him  with  Wordsworth,"  to  the  flippant  and 
low  rhymes,  strung  together  in  the  intervals  of  dissipa- 
tion at  Venice ;  read  the  outpourings  of  his  soul  in  the 
pensive  hour  of  solitary  reminiscence,  and  the  bitter  lines 
provoked  by  resentful  emotion ;  contemplate  a  glowing 
description  caught  from  deep  communion  with  some  scene 
of  historical  interest  or  natural  grandeur,  and  the  weak 
impromptu  wrung  from  a  day  of  ennui  and  self-disgust; 
and  can  anything  impart  so  powerful  an  impression  of  the 
transcendant  worth  of  truth  ?    "  O  the  pity  of  it,  the  pity 
of  it!"  we  exclaim  with  the  Moor;  and  just  in  proportion 
as  we  admire  the  strength  of  the  wing  that  bears  us 
through  the  realms  of  song,  do  we  feel  the  misery  of 
every  unworthy  flight.    In  the  same  degree  that  we 
sympathise  with  genius  do  we  contemn  the  darkness 
which  shrouds  from  view  "  the  unreached  paradise  of  its 
despair."    If  to  some  weak  minds  the  errors  of  high 
natures  are  made  venial  by  its  gifts,  to  many  of  healthier 
tone  they  become  thrice  detestable,  because  of  the  bright- 
ness they  mar.    The  antidote  more  frequently  accompa- 
nies the  bane  than  narrow  moralists  are  willing  to  admit. 
It  will  not  do  to  prescribe  the  style  of  poetic  development. 
Its  moral  characteristics  are  indeed  legitimate  subjects  of 
criticism,  rebuke  or  praise  ;  but  whether  a  bard's  effusions 
are  passionate  or  calm,  descriptive  or  metaphysical,  fes- 
tive or  sad,  depends  upon  the  spirit  whence  they  spring. 
It  is  the  nature  of  a  willow  to  droop,  and  an  oak  to  fling 
out  its  green  branches  sturdily  to  the  gale.    Byron,  with 
his  earnest  temper,  his  undisciplined  mind,  his  im- 
passioned heart,  could  not  have  written  with  the  philoso- 
phic quietude  of  Wordsworth.    It  is  absurd  to  lament 
that  his  verse  is  impassioned ;  such  was  its  legitimate 
form.    And  is  there  not  an  epoch  of  passion  in  every 
human  life  ?    Is  it  not  desirable  that  the  poetry  of  that 
era  should  be  written  ?    Cannot  these  men  of  even  pulse 
and  serene  temper  p3rmit  beings  of  a  more  enthusiastic 


174 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


mood  to  have  their  poetic  mirror  also  ?  Byron  represents 
an  actual  phase  of  the  soul's  life ;  not  its  whole  nor  its 
highest  experience,  but  still  a  real  and  most  interesting 
portion  of  its  development.  He  is  not  the  unnatural 
painter  which  many  critics  would  fain  make  him.  In 
many  a  youthful  heart  do  his  truest  appeals  find  an  im- 
mediate response.  Even  the  misanthropy  with  which 
his  writings  are  imbued  is  not  all  morbid  and  undesira- 
ble. How  much  is  there  of  lofty  promise  in  the  very  dis- 
content he  utters !  How  does  it  whisper  of  desires  too 
vast  for  time,  of  aspirations  which  pleasure  and  fame 
cannot  satisfy.  How  often  does  it  reveal  an  infinite  ne- 
cessity for  love,  an  eternal  tendency  to  progress  !  Mis- 
anthrophy  has  its  poetry  as  well  as  pleasure ;  and  the 
eloquent  complaints  of  Byron  have  brought  home  to 
countless  hearts  a  deeper  conviction  of  the  absolute  need 
of  truth  and  self-respect  than  any  logical  argument.  If 
a  few  shallow  imitators  are  silly  enough  to  turn  down 
their  collars  and  drink  gin,  there  is  another  class  who 
mentally  exclaim  as  they  read  Byron — "  What  infinite 
longings  are  these !  what  sensibility  to  beauty !  what 
capacities  of  suffering!  how  fatal  is  error  to  such  a 
being!  let  me,  of  kindred  clay,  look  earnestly  for  a  lofty 
faith,  a  safe  channel  for  passion,  a  serene  haven  for 
thought !"  The  poet's  torch  is  not  always  a  meteor, 
alluring  only  to  betray,  but  a  beacon-light  warning  the 
lover  of  genius  from  the  rocks  and  quick-sands  which 
made  him  desolate.  Besides,  enough  confidence  is  not 
felt  in  the  native  sense  and  just  sentiments  of  readers. 
Can  we  not  yield  our  hearts  to  the  thrilling  address  to 
Lake  Leman  without  being  pledged  thereby  to  adopt  the 
creed  of  Don  Juan  ?  Can  we  not  accept  Byron's  tribute 
to  the  Venus  and  Dying  Gladiator  without  approving  his 
bacchanal  orgies  at  Newstead?  May  we  not  enjoy  the 
wild  freedom  of  the  Corsair,  without  emulating  the  ex- 
ample of  the  hero  "  of  one  virtue  and  a  thousand  crimes  "? 


MOORE. 


Poetry  seems  as  capricious  in  her  alliances  as  opinion. 
She  is  as  frequently  wedded  to  gladness  as  to  gloom. 
When  we  recall  the  fortunes  and  character  of  her  vota- 
ries, it  seems  impossible  that  an  element  so  peculiar 
should  co-exist  with  such  opposite  tendencies  of  mind 
and  traits  of  feeling.  Like  the  mysterious  combinations 
of  light,  which  yields  a  verdant  gloom  to  the  cypress,  and 
a  rosy  hue  to  the  cloud,  with  one  lucent  effluence  pro- 
ducing innumerable  tints,  the  spirit  of  poetry  assimilates 
with  every  variety  of  human  sentiment,  from  the  deepest 
shadows  of  misanthropy  to  the  freshest  bloom  of  delight. 
She  elevated  the  stern  will  of  Dante  into  grandeur,  and 
softened  the  passion  of  Laura's  lover  into  grace.  In 
some  buoyant  child  of  the  south,  she  appears  like  a  play- 
ful nymph,  crowned  with  roses;  and  breathes  over  a 
northern  harp  like  an  autumn  wind  sighing  through  a 
forest  of  pines.  She  brooded  with  melancholy  wildness 
over  the  soul  of  Byron,  and  scattered  only  flowers  in  the 
path  of  Metastasio.  Alternately  she  wears  the  compla- 
cent smile  of  an  Epicurean  and  the  cold  frown  of  a  stoic. 
Now  she  seems  a  blessing,  and  now  a  bane  ;  inspires  one 
with  heroism,  and  enervates  another  with  delight ;  some- 
times reminds  us  of  the  ocean,  waywardly  heaving  a  hap- 
less barque,  and  again  wears  the  semblance  of  a  peaceful 
stream,  in  whose  clear  waters  the  orbs  of  heaven  seem  to 
slumber.    Thus  poetry  follows  the  universal  law  of  con- 


176 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE  POETS. 


trast,  and  is  true  to  the  phases  of  life.  She  not  only 
reflects  the  different  orders  of  character,  but  the  change- 
ful moods  of  each  individual ;  appeals  to  every  class  of 
sympathies,  and  adapts  herself  to  every  peculiarity  of  ex- 
perience. She  has  an  echo  for  our  glee,  and  an  accom- 
paniment for  our  sadness;  she  can  exalt  the  reverie  of 
the  philosopher,  and  glorify  the  lover's  dreams ;  kneel 
with  the  devout,  and  swell  the  mirth  of  the  banquet ;  at- 
une  the  solemn  harmony  of  a  Milton,  and  the  melodious 
sweetness  of  a  Moore. 

With  the  prevailing  thoughtfulness  that  belongs  to 
British  poetry,  it  is  striking  to  contrast  the  brilliancy  of 
Moore.  He  seems  to  bring  the  vivacious  and  kindly  ge- 
nius of  his  country,  with  an  honest  and  cheerful  pride, 
into  the  more  stately  ranks  of  the  English  minstrels.  His 
sparkling  conceits  and  sentimental  luxury  have  a  south- 
ern flavour.  They  breathe  of  pleasure.  Even  when 
pathetic  their  influence  is  the  same,  for  grief  is  robbed  of 
its  poignancy  and  soothed  into  peace.  The  severity  of 
thought,  the  strain  of  high  excitement,  the  tumult  of  pas- 
sion, are  alike  avoided.  We  are  not  carried  to  the  misty 
heights  of  contemplation,  nor  along  the  formal  paths  of 
detail ;  but  are  left  to  saunter  through  balmy  meadows 
or  repose  in  delicious  groves.  If  sometimes  a  painful 
idea  is  evolved,  a  musical  rhyme  or  bright  image  at  once 
harmonizes  the  picture.  We  are  seldom  permitted  to 
realise  the  poem,  so  constantly  is  maintained  the  idea  of 
the  so?ig.  An  impression  such  as  the  voluntary  numbers 
of  the  troubadour  convey,  like  the  overflowing  of  a  light- 
some yet  imaginative  spirit,  continually  pervades  us.  No 
wrestling  with  the  great  mysteries  of  being,  no  studied 
attempts  to  reach  the  height  of  some  "  great  argument," 
characterize  the  song  of  Moore,  but  a  melodious  dalliance 
with  memory  and  hope,  a  gay  or  pensive  flight  above  the 
toilsome  and  the  actual  into  the  free  domain  of  romance. 


MOORE. 


177 


With  all  these  attractions,  the  poetry  of  Moore  is  in 
no  small  degree  artificial.  The  highest,  as  well  as  the 
most  touching  song,  is  undoubtedly  that  which  springs 
warmly  from  the  poet's  life  and  emotions.  This  is,  with- 
out doubt,  the  case  with  many  of  the  effusions  of  the 
bard  of  Erin  ;  on  the  other  hand,  we  frequently  meet  in 
his  pages  with  gems  brought  from  afar,  beauties  that  ob- 
viously have  been  garnered,  rather  than  naturally  sug- 
gested. Lalla  Rookh,  for  instance,  is  the  result  of  the 
author's  gleanings  amid  the  traditions  and  natural  history 
of  the  East.  His  treasures  are  used,  indeed,  with  con- 
summate skill,  and  no  process  but  the  meditative  work- 
ings of  a  glowing  mind  could  have  blended  them  into 
pictures  of  such  radiant  beauty.  Still,  it  is  well  to  feel 
the  distinction  which  obtains  between  the  poetry  of  the 
artist  and  the  poetry  of  the  man.  It  argues  no  ordinary 
facility  and  creativeness,  for  a  minstrel  to  deliberately 
plan  a  work,  as  an  architect  does  a  temple ;  and  then, 
having  collected  the  materials  of  the  fabric,  proceed  to 
rear  a  harmonious  and  delightful  structure.  But  there 
is  a  process  in  the  art  more  divine  than  this.  It  is  that 
of  the  bard  who  obeys,  like  a  prophet,  the  call  of  inspira- 
tion, utters  chiefly  what  his  own  heart  pleads  to  express, 
and  throws  into  his  poem  the  sincere  teachings  of  his  in- 
most life.  In  such  poetry  there  is  a  spell  of  no  transient 
power.  It  comes  home  to  our  highest  experience.  It  is 
eminently  suggestive.  Like  the  echo  of  the  mountains, 
it  is  full  of  lofty  intimations.  To  this  species  of  poetry 
Moore  has  but  slightly  contributed.  His  general  tone  is 
comparatively  superficial.  Fancy  is  his  great  character- 
istic. This  is  the  quality  which  gives  such  a  sparklino- 
grace  to  his  verse.  Like  the  corruscations  of  frost-work  and 
the  phosphorescence  of  the  sea,  his  fanciful  charms  play 
around  and  fascinate  us ;  they  give  a  zest  to  the  passing 
hour,  and  kindle  bright  illusions  in  the  monotonous  cir- 


178 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


cuit  of  existence  ;  but  they  seldom  beam  with  the  serene 
and  enduring  light  of  the  stars.  Moore  is  too  much  the 
creature  of  social  and  fashionable  life  to  attain  the  high- 
est range  of  Parnassus.  He  is  necessarily,  to  some  de- 
gree, conventional.  His  associations  rarely  transcend 
the  present  and  prevailing  in  thought.  In  the  Vale  of 
Cashmere  he  does  not  forget  the  "  mirror,"  and  amid  the 
1  light  of  other  days,"  his  memory  is  busy  with  the 
'•  banquet  hall."  Moore  especially  deserves  the  title 
of  accomplished.  He  is  no  rough  ploughman,  with 
nothing  but  the  hills  and  firmament,  a  rustic  charmer  or  a 
crushed  daisy,  to  awaken  his  muse  ;  he  is  no  discontented 
peer,  seeking  in  foreign  adventure  freedom  from  social 
shackles ;  but  a  cordial  gentleman,  ever  ready  with  his 
pleasant  repartee  and  his  graceful  song.  He  appears  to 
equal  advantage  at  the  literary  dinner  and  in  the  fashion- 
able drawing-room ;  as  a  guide  through  the  delicious 
labyrinths  of  oriental  romance,  and  a  companion  at  the 
festive  board  ;  as  a  poet,  a  friend,  and  a  man  of  the  world. 
He  is  one  of  those  men  who  seem  born  to  ornament  as 
well  as  to  delight ;  to  give  a  new  grace  to  pleasure  and 
an  imaginative  glow  to  social  life.  There  is  room  for 
constant  discrimination  in  estimating  Moore.  He  has 
written  a  mass  of  verses  which  are  of  temporary  interest, 
and  of  so  little  merit  that  we  cannot  choose  but  wonder 
that  he  should  annex  them  to  his  more  finished  produc- 
tions. "  Lalla  Rookh"  and  the  "  Loves  of  the  Angels" 
are  the  best  of  his  long  compositions,  and  of  these  the 
beautiful  episode  of  "  Paradise  and  the  Peri"  bears  the 
most  brilliant  traces  of  his  genius.  His  fame,  however, 
will  doubtless  rest  eventually  on  the  "  Melodies."  It  is 
to  be  regretted  that  so  many  evidences  of  hasty  and  casu- 
al impressions,  at  once  immature  and  injudicious,  should 
appear  among  the  gems  of  such  a  minstrel.  His  notices 
of  this  country,  for  instance,  founded  on  the  most  mea- 


MOORE. 


179 


gre  observation,  are  scarcely  worthy  of  a  liberal  mind  ; 
and  had  the  poet  conscientiously  examined  the  causes  of 
the  revolutionary  failure  of  the  Neapolitans,  he  would 
not  have  had  the  heart  to  write  of  a  people  so  much 
"  more  sinned  against  than  sinning,"  so  cruel  an  anathe- 
ma as,  "  Ay,  down  to  the  dust  with  them,  slaves  as  they 
are."  The  metaphors  of  this  poet  admirably  illustrate 
his  power  of  fancy,  indicated  in  the  felicitous  comparison 
of  natural  facts  to  moral  qualities.  In  one  of  his  dinner 
speeches,  complimenting  his  hearers  on  their  superiority 
to  party  malevolence,  he  says  their  "  noble  natures,  in  the 
worst  of  times,  would  come  out  of  the  conflict  of  public 
opinion,  like  pebbles  out  of  the  ocean,  more  smooth  and 
more  polished  by  the  very  agitation  in  which  they  had  been 
revolving."  And  on  the  same  occasion,  speaking  of  By- 
ron's disposition  "  to  wander  only  among  the  ruins  of  the 
heart,"  he  says  that  "  like  the  chestnut  tree  that  grows 
best  in  volcanic  soils,  he  luxuriates  most  where  the  confla- 
gration of  passion  has  left  its  mark."  Joyful  moments 
in  the  midst  of  misery  he  compares  to 

 "  those  verdant  spots  that  bloom 

Around  the  crater's  burning  lips, 
Sweetening  the  very  edge  of  doom." 

Among  numerous  similar  examples  are  the  following : 

"  In  every  glance  there  broke,  without  control, 
The  flashes  of  a  bright  but  troubled  soul, 
Where  sensibility  still  wildly  played, 
Like  lightning  round  the  ruins  it  had  made." 

"  Oh,  colder  than  the  wind  that  freezes 
Founts,  that  but  now  in  sunshine  played, 

Is  that  congealing  pang  which  seizes 
The  trusting  bosom  when  betrayed." 

 "  to  see 

Those  virtuous  eyes  forever  turned  on  me 
And  in  their  light  re-chastened  silently, 


180 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Like  the  stained  web  that  whitens  in  the  sun, 
Grow  pure  by  being  purely  shone  upon." 

Music  is  a  great  element  of  Moore's  poetry.  How  few 
have  succeeded  so  well  in  softening  the  Teutonic  jar  of 
our  language,  and  giving  a  flow  to  the  verse  and  a  ca- 
dence to  the  rhythm,  like  the  liquid  tongues  of  the  south  ! 
And  what  an  ineffable  charm  has  the  melody  given  to  his 
song !  He  compares  his  verses  to  "  flies  preserved  in 
amber."  So  beguiling  is  the  greater  portion  of  the  mu- 
sic that  we  can  scarcely  give  a  calm  examination  to  the 
poems  with  which  it  is  indissolubly  associated.  In  this  re- 
spect Moore  enjoys  a  signal  advantage.  There  is  an  anec- 
dote of  an  ancient  dame  who  refused  to  sanction  the  publi- 
cation of  her  deceased  partner's  sermons,  "  because  they 
couldn't  print  the  tone  with  them."  In  poetry,  how  much 
depends  upon  the  reader's  tone,  both  of  voice  and  of  mind  ! 
How  many  noble  pieces  of  verse  slumber  in  obscurity  for 
want  of  an  oral  interpreter  !  Elocutionary  skill  has  re- 
vealed beauties  in  poetry  of  which  even  the  author  never 
dreamed.  The  sweetest  of  Moore's  effusions  are  allied 
10  delightful  music.  Sense  and  soul  are  simultaneously 
addressed,  and  perhaps  no  modern  bard  has  been  more 
widely  felt  as  well  as  acknowledged  to  be  a  poet.  In 
the  gay  saloon,  on  the  lonely  sea,  from  the  lips  of  the 
lady  and  the  peasant,  the  student  and  the  sailor,  the  lover 
and  the  hero,  how  often  have  breathed  such  airs  as  "  The 
Meeting  of  the  Waters,"  "  Love's  Young  Dream,"  "  Come 
rest  in  this  bosom,"  "  Oft  in  the  Stilly  Night,"  "  Come, 
ye  Disconsolate,"  "  Sound  the  Loud  Timbrel,"  "  Mary's 
Tears,"  and  others  as  familiar  in  bower  and  hall.  Thou- 
sands have  responded  to  the  sentiment  of  Byron  : 

«  Were't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  I  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirit  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 


MOORE. 


181 


"  In  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be — Peace  to  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore  /" 

There  is  certainly  something  real  and  grateful  in  such 
fame,  and  it  is  not  surprising  that  Moore  declares  he  has 
no  idea  of  poetry,  disconnected  with  music. 

The  national  associations  connected  with  the  poetry  of 
Moore  greatly  enhance  its  attractions.  As  the  bard  of  a 
depressed  but  noble  people,  whose  sufferings  are  only 
equalled  by  their  heartiness  and  hardihoood,  he  claims 
universal  sympathy.  We  cannot  but  remember  that  his 
strains  breathe  of  a  land  so  lovely  and  so  impoverished 
that  it  has  been  aptly  called  Paradise  Lost.  In  those 
touching  melodies  which  seem  to  embalm  the  fresh  soul 
of  Erin  in  the  days  of  her  strength,  what  fervent  appeals 
are  there  to  every  loyal  and  benevolent  heart !  Indeed 
the  very  fact  of  gathering  from  the  cotter's  fireside,  from 
moor  and  valley  and  sequestered  glen,  the  wild  and  melt- 
ing notes  of  old  Irish  song,  and  wedding  them  to  the  lan- 
guage of  modern  refinement,  strikes  us  as  one  of  the  most 
romantic  enterprises  of  modern  poetry.  If  an  Italian 
painting,  a  Moorish  fountain  and  an  Egyptian  pyramid 
affect  us,  as  the  surviving  and  beautiful  memorials  of  a 
nation's  better  day,  how  much  more  should  we  recognize 
the  eloquent  and  simple  music  of  a  distant  era,  in  which 
the  glow  of  love,  patriotism  and  grief  is  yet  warm  and 
thrilling !  Not  less  in  his  personal  traits  than  his  muse 
does  Moore  illustrate  his  country ;  his  patriotism,  convi- 
vial talents  and  kindly  feelings  are  equally  characteristic. 
As  the  popular  bard  of  Ireland,  his  position  is  singularly 
desirable.  He  is  not  lost  in  a  crowd  of  versifiers  and 
associated  with  a  local  school,  but  strikes  the  imagination 
as  the  poetical  representative  of  a  great  and  unfortunate 
nation.  With  the  groans  that  echo  from  her  afflicted 
11 


182 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


shores  his  notes  of  fancy  and  feeling  mingle,  to  remind 
us  of  the  high  and  warm  traits  of  the  Irish  heart,  and  of 
the  flowers  of  genius  still  blooming  amid  the  gloom  of 
her  distress.    Well  may  he  sing — 

"  Dear  harp  of  my  country  !  in  darkness  I  found  thee  ! 

The  cold  chain  of  silence  had  hung  o'er  thee  long, 
When  proudly,  my  own  Island  harp  !  I  unbound  thee, 

And  gave  all  thy  chords  to  light,  freedom  and  song  V 


ROGERS. 


Such  a  quiet  attribute  as  taste  is  not  very  efficient  at  a 
period  like  the  present.  And  yet  it  is  one  of  those  qual- 
ities which  go  far  toward  perpetuating  a  poem  as  well  as 
a  statue  or  painting.  We  are  now  so  accustomed  to  look 
for  the  rare  and  striking  in  literature,  that  the  very  prin- 
ciple which  harmonizes  and  stamps  with  enduring  beauty 
the  effusions  of  mind,  is  scarcely  appreciated.  It  is 
chiefly  to  the  past  that  we  must  look  for  poetic  taste. 
Recent  bards  have  but  seldom  done  justice  to  the  form 
and  manner  of  their  writings.  There  is  something, 
however,  in  a  refined  style  and  tasteful  execution  not  un- 
worthy the  highest  genius.  It  is  due  at  least  to  that 
magic  vehicle  of  ideas  which  we  call  language,  that  it 
should  be  wrought  and  polished  into  a  shape  fitted  to  en- 
shrine the  glowing  image  and  the  lofty  thought.  Many 
a  work,  the  sentiment  of  which  is  without  significance  in 
this  busy  age,  continues  to  delight  from  its  artistical  ex- 
cellence, and  much  of  the  literature  of  the  day,  that 
bears  the  impress  of  genius,  is  destined  to  speedy  oblivion, 
from  its  unfinished  and  ill-constructed  diction.  There  is 
no  little  scope  for  sweet  fancy  and  'delicate  feeling  in  the 
use  of  language.  Not  in  his  ideas  and  figures  alone 
is  the  poet  manifest.  Indeed,  it  is  as  rare  to  find  a  good 
artist  in  the  sphere  of  words  and  sentences  as  in  that  of 
marble  and  colours.  Some  ingenious  philosophers  have 
pointed  out  analogies  between  styles  of  writing  and  char- 


184 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


acter,  which  suggest  a  much  more  delicate  relation 
between  the  mind  and  its  verbal  expression  than  we  gen- 
erally suppose.  Taste  is  no  minor  element  of  poetry; 
and  the  want  of  it  has  often  checked  the  musical  flow  of 
gifted  spirits,  and  rendered  their  development  wholly 
unattractive.  The  epithet  healthy  has  been  applied  with 
great  meaning  to  a  book.  Of  the  same  efficacy  is  taste 
in  poetic  efforts.  It  renders  them  palatable  and  engaging, 
it  wins  our  regard  immediately,  and  gives  double  zest  to 
the  more  imposing  charms  of  the  work.  It  is  like  a  fine 
accompaniment  in  music ;  the  sentiment  of  the  song  is 
heightened,  and  we  cannot  thenceforth  even  read  it  with- 
out a  peculiar  association  of  pleasure.  Eogers  is  distin- 
guished by  no  quality  more  obviously  than  that  of  taste. 
His  general  characteristics  are  not  very  impressive  or 
startling.  There  are  few  high  reflective  beauties,  such  as 
win  reverence  for  the  bard  of  Rydal  Mount,  and  scarcely 
an  inkling  of  the  impassioned  force  of  Childe  Harold. 
We  are  not  warmed  in  his  pages,  by  the  lyric  fire  of 
Campbell,  or  softened  by  the  tender  rhapsodies  of  Burns ; 
and  yet  the  poetry  of  Rogers  is  very  pleasing.  It  gains 
upon  the  heart  by  gentle  encroachments.  It  commends 
itself  by  perfect  freedom  from  rugged,  strained  and  un- 
skilful versification.  It  is,  for  the  most  part,  so  flowing 
and  graceful  that  it  charms  us  unaware.  Without  bril- 
liant flashes  or  luxuriant  imagery,  it  is  still  clear,  free 
and  harmonious.  It  succeeds  by  virtue  of  simplicity,  by 
unpretending  beauty ;  in  a  word,  by  the  genuine  taste 
which  guides  the  poet,  both  in  his  eye  for  the  beautiful, 
and  the  expression  of  his  feelings.  Great  ideas  are  not 
often  encountered  in  his  poems,  but  purity  of  utterance 
and  a  true  refinement  of  sentiment  everywhere  abound. 

There  is  perhaps  no  Englishman  who,  by  such  univer- 
sal consent,  is  more  worthy  the  appellation  of  a  man  of 
tase.    This  tone  of  mind  is  the  more  remarkable,  inas- 


ROGERS. 


185 


much  as  it  has  no  connection  with  professional  life.  The 
ostensible  pursuit  of  Mr.  Rogers  has  no  reference  to  his 
intellectual  bias,  except  in  having  furnished  him  the 
means  of  mental  gratification.  Like  his  transatlantic 
prototype  in  the  brotherhood  of  song,  a  good  portion  of 
his  life  is,  or  has  been, 

— "  to  life's  coarse  service  sold, 
Where  thought  lies  barren,  and  nought  breeds  but  gold  " 

His  taste  is  the  spontaneous  and  native  quulity  of  a  re- 
fined mind.  It  has  made  him  a  discriminating  collector 
of  literary  treasures  and  trophies  of  art,  the  liberal  patron 
of  struggling  genius,  the  correspondent  of  the  gifted  and 
the  renowned,  and  the  centre  of  a  circle  where  wit  and 
wisdom  lend  wings  to  time.  It  is  in  contemplating  such 
a  life  as  this  that  the  most  philosophic  and  unworldly 
may  be  forgiven  for  breathing  a  sigh  for  that  wealth, 
which  a  cultivated  man  can  thus  render  the  source  of 
such  noble  enjoyment.  And  yet  the  very  feeling  that 
such  an  example  awakens  is  an  evidence  of  its  rarity. 
How  seldom  in  a  mercantile  community  do  we  find  for- 
tune associated  with  taste,  a  competence  with  a  mind 
able  to  enjoy  and  improve  leisure,  the  means  of  dis- 
pensing worthy  delight,  with  a  benevolent  and  judicious 
character  !  An  exception  to  the  prevailing  rule  is  pre- 
sented by  our  poet ;  and  even  those  who  have  not  parti- 
cipated in  his  elegant  hospitality  and  graceful  compan- 
ionship, may  realize  that  pervading  taste  whence  is  de- 
rived their  peculiar  charm,  by  communing  with  the  mind 
of  the  classic  banker,  in  the  sweet  effusions  of  his  muse. 

The  excellent  taste  of  Rogers  is  exhibited  in  his  sim- 
plicity. He  does  not  seek  for  that  false  effect  which  is 
produced  by  laboured  epithets  and  unusual  terms.  He  is 
content  to  use  good  Saxon  phraseology,  and  let  his  mean- 
ing appear  through  the  transparent  medium  of  common 
but  appropriate  words.  He  recognizes  the  truth  that  dis- 
11* 

8B4 


186 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


tinct  and  clear  enunciation  of  thought  is  the  most  beauti- 
ful, and  that  a  writer's  superiority  is  best  evinced  by  the 
nice  adaptation  of  language  to  sentiment.  Obvious  as 
such  a  principle  is,  there  is  none  more  commonly  viola- 
ted by  the  more  showy  minstrels  of  this  generation,  who 
seem  to  place  great  reliance  on  a  kind  of  verbal  mysti- 
cism, a  vagueness  of  speech  which,  upon  examination, 
proves  but  the  dazzling  attire  of  commonplace  ideas.  In- 
stances of  this  simplicity  are  of  frequent  occurrence  in 
the  poems  of  Rogers.  Their  value  is  illustrated  by  the 
quiet  emphasis  of  single  lines,  which,  like  a  masterly 
stroke  of  the  pencil,  appear  so  felicitous  that  no  revision 
can  improve  them.  A  few  random  examples  will 
suffice — 

When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new, 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  watched  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest, 
Welcomed  the  wild  bee  home  on  weary  wing,  . 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring  ! 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  Friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silvered  by  the  touch  of  Time  ; 
Soared  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer  shade; 
Or  strewed  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat, 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  her  lone  retreat ! 

When  pensive  Twilight,  in  her  dusky  car, 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening  star 

Far  from  the  joyless  glare,  the  maddening  strife, 
And  all  the  dull  impertinence  of  life. 

Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn, 
Quickening  my  truant  feet  across  the  lawn. 

But  not  fill  Time  has  calmed  the  ruffled  breast, 
And  those  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest, 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave 
In  Heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 


ROGERS 


1S7 


With  all  due  admiration  for  the  loftier  flights  of  the 
Muse,  we  cannot  revert  to  the  purer  school  of  poetic  dic- 
tion which  Rogers  represents,  without  a  feeling  of  re- 
freshment. The  simple,  the  correct,  the  clear  and  ner- 
vous style  of  versification  has  an  intrinsic  charm.  The 
genuine  taste  in  which  it  originates  and  to  which  it  min- 
isters, is  an  instinct  of  refined  natures.  It  is  the  same 
principle  that  makes  a  Grecian  temple  more  truly  admir- 
able in  its  chaste  proportions  and  uniform  tint,  than  all 
the  brilliant  hues  and  combinations  of  a  Catholic  church  ; 
and  renders  a  classic  statue  more  pleasing  and  impres- 
sive than  the  most  ingenious  mechanism.  And  it  is 
from  the  same  cause  that  the  paintings  of  the  Roman  and 
Tuscan  schools  leave  more  vivid  traces  on  the  memory 
than  the  gorgeous  triumphs  of  Venetian  art.  By  virtue 
of  their  confidence  in  the  feeling  or  thought  to  be  pre- 
sented, men  of  real  taste  are  ever  true  to  simplicity. 
They  rely  on  the  plain  statement  and  the  reader's  imagi- 
nation, and  produce  by  a  single  comparison  or  remark  an 
impression  which  more  elaborate  terms  would  greatly 
weaken.  For  instance,  when  Rogers  describes  the  sce- 
nery of  the  Alps,  speaking  of  one  of  those  pools  that 
have  so  dark  an  appearance  amid  the  surrounding  white- 
ness, he  says — 

....  in  that  dreary  dale, 
If  dale  it  might  be  called,  so  near  to  Heaven, 
A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leaped  up,  v 
Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow  ' 

How  completely  is  a  sense  of  the  dreariness  and  ebon 
hue  of  these  mountain  ponds  conveyed,  and  by  what 
natural  illustrations.  The  diminutive  size  of  St.  Helena 
is  thus  indicated — 

....  a  rock  so  small, 
Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves, 
That  ships  have  gone  and  sought  it,  and  returned^ 
Saying  it  was  not. 


ISS  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

The  wild  solitude  of  the  convent  of  St.  Bernard  has  been 
often  described,  as  well  as  its  awful  place  of  sepulture. 
Do  not  these  few  lines  give  us  a  remarkably  vivid  idea  of 
those  who  "  perished  miserably  ?" 

....  Side  by  side, 
Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  company, 
All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them, 
In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 
Through  the  barred  windows,  barred  against  the  wolf, 
Are  always  open ! 

Speaking  of  the  festive  preparations  on  St.  Mary's  Eve, 
how  expressive  is  this  single  circumstance — 

....  all  arrived ; 
And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turned  and  listened, 
So  great  the  stir  in  Venice. 

Whoever  has  visited  that  extraordinary  city  will  feel  that 
it  is  pictured  by  Rogers,  not  in  the  most  glowing,  yet  in 
a  style  of  graphic  truth,  which  accords  perfectly  with  the 
real  scene — 

There  is  a  glorious  City  of  the  Sea, 
The  sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets, 
Ebbing  and  flowing  :  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro, 
Lead  to  her  gates.    The  path  lies  o'er  the  sea, 
Invisible  ;  and  from  the  land  we  went 
4    As  to  a  floating  city — steering  in, 

And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream, 

So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a  dome 

Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico, 

The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky ; 

By  many  a  pile  of  more  than  Eastern  splendour, 

Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant  kings  ; 

The  fronts  of  some,  though  Time  had  shattered  them, 

Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art, 

As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

In  an  argument  we  have  need  of  strong  epithets,  and 


ROGERS. 


189 


to  rouse  men  on  an  abstract  theme,  fervid  appeals  are  un- 
avoidable, but  in  view  of  the  marvels  of  art  or  the  sub- 
limities of  nature,  what  call  is  there  for  exaggeration 2 
To  the  true  soul  is  not  the  fact  sufficient  ?  Can  exple- 
tives and  strained  metaphors  add  to  the  native  interest  of 
such  objects  ?  Are  they  not  themselves  poetry  ?  Is  not 
the  poet's  office  in  relation  to  them,  to  give  us  as  true  a 
picture  as  may  be,  that  we  too  may  thrill  with  wonder  or 
revel  in  beauty?  Even  in  portraying  deep  emotion  our 
great  dramatist  was  satisfied  to  place  in  Macduff's 
mouth — "  He  has  no  children  !"  And  it  is  equally  true 
to  human  nature,  for  Rogers  to  speak  of  Ginevra's  be- 
reaved father  as — 

An  old  man  wandering  in  quest  of  something, 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 

Another  evidence  of  the  good  judgment  of  Rogers  may 
be  found  in  the  fact  that  he  has  published  so  little.  It  is 
the  fashion  to  chide  the  authors  of  a  few  successful 
poems  for  their  idleness.  Some  deem  it  a  very  pretty 
compliment  to  say  of  a  poet  that  his  only  fault  is  that  he 
has  not  written  more.  But  such  praise  is  equivocal,  to 
say  the  least.  It  betrays  a  singular  ignorance  of  the  very 
nature  of  poetry,  which  may  be  defined  as  an  art  above 
the  will.  Doubtless  if  fine  poems  were  as  easily  pro- 
duced as  fine  rail-roads,  it  would  be  incumbent  on  the 
makers  thereof  to  be  very  industrious  in  their  vocation. 
But  as  the  activity  of  the  fancy  and  the  flow  of  thought 
are  but  occasionally  felicitous,  some  degree  of  reverence 
should  be  accorded  the  poet  who  having  once  struck  the 
lyre  to  a  masterly  strain,  thenceforth  meekly  refrains  from 
any  rash  meddling  with  its  chords,  without  that  authority 
which  his  own  heart  can  alone  vouchsafe.  Occasional 
witticisms  have  been  indulged  in  reference  to  the  coyness 
and  care  with  which  the  bard  of  Memory  woos  the  Mu- 


190 


THOUGHTS    ON  THE  TOETS. 


ses.  To  a  delicate  and  considerate  mind  such  a  course 
approves  itself  far  more  than  the  opposite.  How  many- 
desirable  reputations  have  been  sacrificed  to  the  morbid 
vanity  of  unceasing  authorship  !  The  creative  power  of 
every  intellect  is  limited,  its  peculiar  vein  is  soon  exhausted, 
and  its  most  ethereal  powers  may  not  be  too  frequently  in- 
voked wiihout  vapid  results.  We  have  heard  of  an  old 
lady  who  had  a  celebrated  bishop  to  dine  with  her  every 
Sunday,  and  invariably  on  these  occasions,  his  worship 
inquired  how  her  ladyship  would  have  the  punch  made  ; 
to  which  polite  query,  the  good  woman  always  gave  the 
same  judicious  reply — "  Make  a  little,  bishop,  but  make 
it  goody  Such  a  rule  would  often  serve  as  well  for  poe- 
try as  for  punch. 

Rogers,  in  point  of  execution,  belongs  to  the  same  cat- 
egory as  Goldsmith.  He  has  the  requisite  insight  to 
copy  from  nature  what  is  really  adapted  to  poetical  ob- 
jects, to  harmonize  and  enliven  his  pencilings  with  genial 
sentiment,  and  finally  to  present  them  in  a  form  that 
charms  the  ear  and  imagination.  The  spirit  of  his  poe- 
try is  not  of  the  highest  order.  His  talent  is  artistical 
rather  than  inventive.  He  is  a  clear  delineator  rather 
than  a  creative  genius.  A  remarkable  contrast  is  pre- 
sented by  his  "  Italy"  and  the  fourth  canto  of  Childe 
Harold.  The  former  gives  us  a  just  and  sweet  picture 
of  the  graces  and  griefs  of  that  beautiful  land,  as  they 
were  reflected  in  the  mind  of  an  amiable  man  of  taste  ; 
the  latter  displays  the  same  country,  seen  through  the 
medium  of  an  impassioned  and  self-occupied  soul. 
Rogers  looked  upon  the  vale  and  river,  the  palace  and 
the  statue,  the  past  and  present  associations  of  Italy,  from 
the  calm  watch-tower  of  a  serene  consciousness  ;  Byron 
surveyed  those  scenes  as  a  restless  seeker  for  peace,  with 
a  mind  too  excited  and  unsatisfied  not  to  mingle  with  and 
colour  every  fact  and  object  with  which  it  came  in  con- 
tact.   There  is  a  wild  and  melancholy  beauty  in  Harold's 


ROGERS. 


musings  that  appeals  to  our  deepest  sympathy ;  a  repose 
and  pleasurable  calm  in  those  of  Rogers,  that  soothes  and 
diverts  us.    Something  of  tragic  impression  and  strong 
personal  interest  carries  us  along  with  Byron  in  his  pil- 
grimage, while  a  quiet  attachment  and  agreeable  fellowship 
win  us  to  follow  the  steps  of  Rogers. 
•The  blank  verse  of  "  Italy"  is  of  a  somewhat  uncom- 
mon description.    In  English  poetry,  this  species  of  me- 
tre has  generally  been  written  in  a  sustained  and  dignified 
manner,  ;tnd  some  passages  of  Shakspere  and  Milton 
prove  that  there  is  no  style  so  fitted  for  sublime  effect. 
Rogers  essayed  to  give  a  more  easy  and  familiar  con- 
struction to  blank  verse,  and  the  attempt  was  remarkably 
successful.    Occasionally  the  lines  are  prosaic,  and  scarce- 
ly elevated  to  the  tone  of  legitimate  verse  ;  but  often 
there  is  a  natural  and  sweet  cadence  which  is  worthy  of 
the  most  harmonious  bard.    The  example,  too,  has  obvi- 
ously tended  to  chasten  and  render  more  simple  the  man- 
agement of  this  kind  of  verse.    In  this  respect,  Rogers 
has  illustrated  blank  verse  as  Hunt  has  the  heroic  meas- 
ure.   They  have  exemplified  a  less  stilted  and  artificial 
use  of  poetic  language.    The  poem  of  the  former  has, 
indeed,  an  epistolary  character.    It  is  precisely  such  a 
series  of  genial  sketches  as  an  artist  might  send  his 
friends  from  a  foreign  country — light,  graceful  and  true 
to  nature,  but  pretending  to  no  great  or  elaborate  concep- 
tions.   In  this,  as  in  his  other  efforts,  Rogers  is  often  some- 
what tame,  and  frequently  lacks  fire  and  point ;  but  the 
mass  of  what  he  has  published  is  conceived  and  executed 
in  such  an  unassuming  and  tasteful  spirit,  that  the  reader 
has  no  disposition  to  magnify  his  defects.    His  minor 
poems  have  a  very  unpretending  air,  and  remind  us 
somewhat  of  the  "  copies  of  verses"  that  cavaliers  were 
accustomed  to  indite  for  the  gratification  of  friend  or  mis- 
tress.   The  prettiest  and  most  characteristic  of  these  oc 
casional  poems  is,  perhaps,  that  entitled  "  A  Wish." 


192 


THOUGHTS   ON    THE  POETS. 


Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill, 
A.  bee-hive's  hum  to  soothe  my  ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall  shall  linger  near. 
The  swallow  oft  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay -built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest, 
Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  ; 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 
The  village  church  among  the  trees, 
Where  our  first  marriage  vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 

To  Rogers  we  must  accord  a  true  moral  feeling.  The 
cordial  friend,  the  man  of  native  literary  sympathies  and 
domestic  tastes,  are  ever  reflected  in  his  pages.  He  has 
a  kindly  and  liberal  heart  as  well  as  an  intellectual  spirit. 
There  are  more  imposing  names  on  the  scroll  of  poetic 
fame,  but  few  who  have  a  better  claim  to  love  and  respect 
He  is  not  without  a  poet's  ambition — 

Oh  could  my  mind,  unfolded  in  my  page, 
Enlighten  climes  and  mould  a  future  age  ; 
Oh  could  it  still,  through  each  succeeding  year, 
My  life,  my  manners  and  my  name  endear  ! 

The  latter  aspiration  has  already  met  its  fulfilment.  The 
clearness  and  elegance,  the  quiet  ardour  and  urbane  sen- 
timent that  appear  in  his  verse,  are  too  candid  and  win- 
ning not  to  excite  interest.  Our  attachment  to  the  higher 
and  more  affecting  species  of  poetry  does  not  militate 
with,  but  rather  enhances  our  sympathy  with  the  quiet 
graces  of  his  muse.  The  delight  with  which  we  tread 
the  sea-shore  and  listen  to  the  dashing  billows,  does  not 
prevent  us  from  reposing  with  pleasure  beside  the  calm 
lake,  to  watch  the  clouds  reflected  in  its  bosom,  or  the 
dowers  that  hang  their  fragrant  urns  around  its  brink. 


BURNS. 


There  are  certain  sentiments  which  "  give  the  world 
assurance  of  a  man."  They  are  inborn,  not  acquired. 
Before  them  fade  away  the  trophies  of  scholarship  and 
the  badges  of  authority.  They  are  the  most  endearing 
of  human  attractions.  No  process  of  culture,  no  mere 
grace  of  manner,  no  intellectual  endowments,  can  atone 
for  their  absence,  or  successfully  imitate  their  charms. 
These  sentiments  redeem  our  nature ;  their  indulgence 
constitutes  the  better  moments  of  life.  Without  them  we 
grow  mechanical  in  action,  formal  in  manner,  pedantic  in 
mind.  With  them  in  freshness  and  vigour,  we  are  true, 
spontaneous,  morally  alive.  We  reciprocate  affection,  we 
luxuriate  in  the  embrace  of  nature,  we  breathe  an  atmos- 
phere of  love,  and  glow  in  the  light  of  beauty.  Frank- 
ness, manly  independence,  deep  sensibility  and  pure 
enthusiasm  are  the  characteristics  of  the  true  man. 
Against  these  fashion,  trade  and  the  whole  train  of  petty 
interests  wage  an  unceasing  war.  In  few  hearts  do  they 
survive ;  but  wherever  recognized,  they  carry  every 
unperverted  soul  back  to  childhood  and  up  to  God.  They 
vindicate  human  nature  with  irresistible  eloquence,  and 
like  the  air  of  mountains  and  the  verdure  of  valleys,  allure 
us  from  the  thoroughfare  of  routine  and  the  thorny  path 
of  destiny.  When  combined  with  genius,  they  utter  an 
appeal  to  the  world,  and  their  possessor  becomes  a  priest 
of  humanity,  whose  oracles  send  forth  an  echo  even  from 


194 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


the  chambers  of  death.  Such  is  Robert  Burns.  How 
refreshing  to  turn  from  the  would-be-prophets  of  the  day, 
and  contemplate  the  inspired  ploughman  !  No  mystic 
emblems  deform  his  message.  We  have  no  hieroglyph- 
ics to  decipher.  We  need  no  philosophic  critic  at  our 
elbow.  It  is  a  brother  who  speaks  to  us  ; — no  singular 
specimen  of  spiritual  pride,  but  a  creature  of  flesh  and  blood. 
We  can  hear  the  beatings  of  his  brave  heart,  not  always 
like  a  "  muffled  drum,"  but  often  with  the  joy  of  solemn 
victory.  We  feel  the  grasp  of  his  toil-hardened  hand. 
We  see  the  pride  on  his  brow,  the  tear  in  his  eye,  the 
smile  on  his  lip.  We  behold  not  an  effigy  of  buried 
learning,  a  tame  image  from  the  mould  of  fashion,  but  a 
free,  cordial,  earnest  man  ; — one  with  whom  we  can 
roam  the  hills,  partake  the  cup,  praise  the  maiden,  or 
worship  the  stars.  He  is  a  human  creature,  only  over- 
flowing with  the  characteristics  of  humanity.  To  him 
belong  in  large  measure  the  passions  and  the  powers  of 
his  race.  He  professes  no  exemption  from  the  common 
lot.  He  pretends  not  to  live  on  rarer  elements.  He 
expects  not  to  be  ethereal  before  death.  He  conceals  not 
his  share  of  frailty,  nor  turns  aside  from  penance.  He 
takes  '  with  equal  thanks  a  sermon  or  a  song.'  No  one 
prays  more  devoutly  ;  but  the  same  ardour  fires  his 
earthly  loves.  The  voice  that  "  wales  a  portion  with 
judicious  care,"  anon  is  attuned  to  the  convivial  song. — 
The  same  eye  that  glances  with  poetic  awe  upon  the 
hills  at  twilight,  gazes  with  a  less  subdued  fervour  on  the 
winsome  features  of  the  highland  lassie.  And  thus 
vibrated  the  poet's  heart  from  earth  to  heaven, — from  the 
human  to  the  godlike.  Karely  and  richly  were  mingled 
in  him  the  elements  of  human  nature.  His  crowning 
distinction  is  a  larger  soul ;  and  this  he  carried  into  all 
things, — to  the  altar  of  God  and  the  festive  board,  to  the 
ploughshare's  furrow  and  the  letter  of  friendship,  to  the 


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195 


martial  lyric  and  the  lover's  assignation.  That  such  a 
soul  should  arise  in  the  midst  of  poverty  is  a  blessing. 
So  do  men  learn  that  all  their  appliances  are  as  nothing 
before  the  creative  energy  of  Nature.  They  may  make 
a  Parr ;  she  alone  can  give  birth  to  a  Burns.  It  is  to  be 
rejoiced  at  that  so  noble  a  brother  was  born  in  a  "  clay- 
built  cottage."  Had  his  eyes  first  opened  in  a  palace,  so 
great  a  joy  would  not  have  descended  upon  the  lowly  and 
the  toil-worn.  These  can  now  more  warmly  boast  of  a 
common  lineage.  Perchance,  too,  that  fine  spirit  would 
have  been  meddled  with  till  quite  undone,  had  it  first 
appeared  in  the  dwelling  of  a  wealthy  citizen.  Books 
and  teachers,  perhaps,  would  have  subdued  its  elastic 
freedom, — artificial  society  perverted  its  heaven-born  fire. 
Better  that  its  discipline  was  found  in  "  labour  and 
sorrow"  rather  than  in  social  restraint  and  conformity. 
Better  "that  it  erred  through  excess  of  passion,  than  de- 
liberate hypocrisy.  So  rich  a  stream  is  less  marred  by 
overflowing  its  bounds  than  by  growing  shallow.  It  was 
nobler  to  yield  to  temptation  from  wayward  appetite  than 
through  "  malignity  or  design."  More  worthy  is  it  that 
melancholy  should  take  the  form  of  a  sad  sympathy  with 
nature,  than  a  bitter  hatred  of  man  ;  that  the  flowers  of  the 
heart  should  be  blighted  by  the  heat  of  its  lava-soil,  than 
wither  in  the  deadening  air  of  artificial  life.  Burns  lost 
not  the  susceptibility  of  his  conscience  or  the  sincerity  and 
manliness  of  his  character.  In  a  higher  sphere  of  life,  these 
characteristics  would  have  been  infinitely  more  exposed. 

The  muse  of  Burns  is  distinguished  by  a  pensive 
tenderness.  His  mind  was  originally  of  a  reflective 
cast.  His  education,  destiny  and  the  scenery  amid  which 
he  lived  deepened  this  trait,  and  made  it  prevailing. — 
True  sensibility  is  the  fertile  source  of  sadness.  A  heart 
constantly  alive  to  the  vicissitudes  of  life  and  the  pathetic 
appeals  of  nature,  cannot  long  maintain  a  lightsome 
mood.    From  his  profound  feeling  sprang  the  beauties  of 


196 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


the  Scottish  bard.  He  T.vho  could  so  pity  a  wounded 
hare  and  elegize  a  crushed  daisy,  whose  young  bosom 
favourites  were  Sterne  and  Mackenzie,  lost  not  a  single 
sob  of  the  storm,  nor  failed  to  mark  the  gray  cloud  and 
the  sighing  trees.  In  this  intense  sympathy  with  the 
mournful,  exists  the  germ  of  true  poetical  elevation. 
The  very  going  out  into  the  vastly  sad,  is  sublime.  Per- 
sonal cares  are  forgotten  ;  and  as  Byron  calls  upon  us  to 
forget  our  "  petty  misery"  in  view  of  the  mighty  ruins  of 
Eome,  so  the  dirges  of  Nature  invite  us  into  a  grand 
funereal  hall,  where  mortal  sighs  are  lost  in  mightier  wail, 
ing.  This  element  of  pensiveness  distinguishes  alike 
the  poetry  and  character  of  Burns.  He  tells  us  of  the 
exalted  sensations  he  experienced  on  an  autumn  morning, 
when  listening  to  the  cry  of  a  troop  of  gray  plover  or  the 
solitary  whistle  of  the  curlew.  The  elements  raged 
around  him  as  he  composed  Bannockburn,  and  he  loved 
to  write  at  night,  or  during  a  cloudy  day,  being  most 
successful  in  "  a  gloamin'  shot  at  the  muses." 

There  was  a  thorough  and  pervading  honesty  about 
Burns, — that  freedom  from  disguise  and  simple  truth  of 
character,  to  the  preservation  of  which  rustic  life  is  emi- 
nently favourable.  He  was  open  and  frank  in  social  in- 
tercourse, and  his  poems  are  but  the  sincere  records  and 
outpourings  of  his  native  feelings. 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  barmie  noddle's  working  prime 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon; 
Hae  ye  a  leisure-moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin  ? 

Hence  he  almost  invariably  wrote  from  strong  emotion. 
"  My  passions,"  he  says,  "  raged  like  so  many  devils  un- 
til they  found  vent  in  rhyme."  This  entire  truthfulness 
is  one  of  the  greatest  charms  of  his  verse.    For  the  most 


BURNS. 


197 


part,  song,  satire  and  lyric  come  warm  from  his  heart. 
Insincerity  and  pretension  completely  disgusted  him. 
Scarcely  does  he  betray  the  slightest  impatience  of  his  fel- 
lows, except  in  exposing  and  ridiculing  these  traits.  Holy 
Willie's  prayer  and  a  few  similar  effusions  were  penned 
as  protests  against  bigotry  and  presumption.  Burns  was 
too  devotional  to  bear  calmly  the  abuses  of  religion. 

God  knows,  I'm  not  the  thing  I  should  be, 

Nor  am  I  even  the  thing  I  could  be, 

But  twenty  times,  I  rather  would  be, 
An'  atheist  clean, 

Than  under  Gospel  colours  hid  be, 
Just  for  a  screen, 

But  satire  was  not  his  element.  Rather  did  he  love  to 
give  expression  to  benevolent  feeling  and  generous  affec- 
tion. The  native  liberality  of  his  nature  cast  a  mantle 
of  charity  over  the  errors  of  his  kind,  in  language  which, 
for  touching  simplicity,  has  never  been  equalled. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrang ; 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it : 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark, 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Wha  made  the  heart,  'tis  he  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone, 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute, 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what's  resisted. 

Burns  had  a  truly  noble  soul.    He  cherished  an  hon- 
est pride,    Obligation  oppressed  him,  and  with  all  his 
rusticity  he  firmly  maintained  his  dignity  in  the  polished 
12 


THOUGHTS    ON   THE  POETS. 


circles  of  Edinburgh.  Like  all  manly  hearts,  while  he 
Keenly  felt  the  sting  of  poverty,  his  whole  nature  recoiled 
from  dependence.  He  desired  money,  not  for  the  distinc- 
tion and  pleasure  it  brings,  but  chiefly  that  he  might  be 
free  from  the  world.  He  recorded  the  creed  of  the  true 
man ; — 

To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smile, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her  ; 
And  gather  gear  by  ev'ry  wile 

That's  justified  by  honour  ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Not  for  a  train-attendant ; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

His  susceptibility  to  Nature  was  quick  and  impassioned. 
He  hung  with  rapture  over  the  hare- bell,  fox-glove,  bud- 
ding birch  and  hoary  hawthorn.  Though  chiefly  alive 
to  its  sterner  aspects,  every  phase  of  the  universe  was  in- 
expressibly dear  to  him. 

0  Nature  !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 

To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 

Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms, 

Wi'  life  an'  light, 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms, 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

How  delightful  to  see  the  victim  of  poverty  and  care  thus 
yield  up  his  spirit  in  blest  oblivion  of  his  lot  !  He  walked 
beside  the  river,  climbed  the  hill  and  wandered  over  the 
moor,  with  a  more  exultant  step  and  more  bounding  heart 
than  ever  conqueror  knew.  In  his  hours  of  sweet  reve- 
rie, all  consciousness  was  lost  of  outward  poverty,  in  the 
richness  of  a  gifted  spirit.  Then  he  lookod  upon  crea- 
tion as  his  heritage.  He  felt  drawn  to  her  by  the  glow- 
ing bond  of  a  kindred  spirit.  Fvery  wild-flower  from 
which  he  brushed  the  deAV,  every  mountain-top  to  which 
his  eyes  were  lifted,  every  star  that  smiled  upon  his  path, 


BURNS. 


199 


was  a  token  and  a  pledge  of  immortality.  He  partook 
of  their  freedom  and  their  beauty ;  and  held  fond  com- 
munion with  their  silent  loveliness.  The  banks  of  the 
Doon  became  like  the  bowers  of  Paradise,  and  Mossgiel 
was  as  a  glorious  kingdom. 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  Nature's  fire, 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  tho'  I  drudge  thro'  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart, 
My  muse,  tho'  hamely  in  attire, 

May  touch  the  heart. 

That  complete  self-abandonment,  characteristic  of  poets, 
belonged  strikingly  to  Burns.  He  threw  himself,  all  sen- 
sitive and  ardent  as  he  was,  into  the  arms  of  Nature. 
He  surrendered  his  heart  unreservedly  to  the  glow  of 
social  pleasure,  and  sought  with  equal  heartiness  the 
peace  of  domestic  retirement. 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 

Just  now  we're  living  sound  and  hale, 

Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail, 

Heave  care  o'er  side  ! 
And  large,  before  enjoyment's  gale, 

Let's  tak  the  tide. 

This  life  has  joys  for  you  and  I, 
And  joys  that  riches  ne'er  could  buy, 

And  joys  the  very  best. 
There's  a'  the  pleasures  o'  the  heart, 

The  lover  and  the  frien; 
Ye  hae  your  Meg,  your  dearest  part, 

And  I  my  darling  Jean  ! 

He  sinned,  and  repented,  with  the  same  singleness  of 
purpose,  and  completeness  of  devotion.  This  is  illus- 
trated in  many  of  his  poems.  In  his  love  and  grief,  in 
his  joy  and  despair,  we  find  no  medium  ; — 

By  passion  driven  ; 
And  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 
Was  light  from  heaven 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Perhaps  the  freest  and  deepest  element  of  the  poetry  of 
Burns,  is  love.  With  the  first  awakening  of  this  passion 
in  his  youthful  breast,  came  also  the  spirit  of  poetry. 
"  My  heart,"  says  one  of  his  letters,  "  was  complete  tin- 
der, and  eternally  lighted  up  by  some  goddess  or  other." 
He  was  one  of  those  susceptible  men  to  whom  love  is  no 
fiction  or  fancy ;  to  whom  it  is  not  only  a  "  strong  ne- 
cessity," but  an  overpowering  influence.  To  female 
attractions  he  was  a  complete  slave.  An  eye,  a  tone,  a 
grasp  of  the  hand,  exercised  over  him  the  sway  of  des- 
tiny. His  earliest  and  most  blissful  adventures  were 
following  in  the  harvest  with  a  bonnie  lassie,  or  picking 
nettles  out  of  a  fair  one's  hand.  He  had  no  armour  of 
philosophy  wherewith  to  resist  the  spell  of  beauty.  Ge- 
nius betrayed  rather  than  absolved  him;  and  his  soul 
found  its  chief  delight  and  richest  inspiration  in  the 
luxury  of  loving. 

0  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found; 
0  heart-felt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 

I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 
And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare — 

"  If  heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 
One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 

'Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair, 
In  others'  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn,  that  scents  the  evening  gale." 

And  yet  the  love  of  Burns  was  poetical  chiefly  in  its  ex- 
pression. He  loved  like  a  man.  His  was  no  mere  sen- 
timental passion,  but  a  hearty  attachment.  He  sighed 
not  over  the  pride  of  a  Laura,  nor  was  satisfied  with  a 
smile  of  distant  encouragement.  Genuine  passion  was 
only  vivified  and  enlarged  in  his  heart  by  a  poetical 
mind.  He  arrayed  his  rustic  charmer  with  few  ideal 
attractions.    His  vows  were  paid  to 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food  ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears  and  smiles. 


BURNS. 


201 


Her  positive  and  tangible  graces  were  enough  for  him. 
He  sought  not  to  exalt  them,  but  only  to  exhibit  the  fer- 
vour of  his  attachment.  Even  in  his  love  was  there  this 
singular  honesty.  Exaggerated  flattery  does  not  mark 
his  amatory  poems,  but  a  warm  expression  of  his  passion- 
ate regard,  a  sweet  song  over  the  joys  of  affection.  Per- 
haps no  poet  has  better  depicted  true  love,  in  its  most 
common  manifestation.  Of  the  various  objects  of  his 
regard,  the  only  one  who  seems  to  have  inspired  any 
purely  poetical  sentiment  was  Highland  Mary.  Their 
solemn  parting  on  the  banks  of  the  Ayr,  and  her  early 
death,  are  familiar  to  every  reader  of  Burns.  Her 
memory  seemed  consecrated  to  his  imagination,  and  he 
has  made  it  immortal  by  his  beautiful  lines  to  Mary  in 
Heaven.  Nor  was  the  Scottish  bard  unaware  how  deep 
an  inspiration  he  derived  from  the  gentler  sex.  He  tells 
us  that  when  he  desired  to  feel  the  pure  spirit  of  poetry 
and  obey  successfully  its  impulse,  he  put  himself  on  a 
regimen  of  admiring  a  fine  woman. 

Health  to  the  sex,  ilk  guid  chiel  says, 
Wi'  merry  dance  in  winter  days, 

An'  we  to  share  in  common ; 
The  gust  o'  joy,  the  balm  of  woe, 
The  soul  o'  life,  the  heaven  below, 

Is  rapture-giving  woman. 

And  of  all  the  agencies  of  life  there  is  none  superior  to 
this.  Written  eloquence,  the  voice  of  the  bard,  the  music 
of  creation,  will  often  fail  to  awaken  the  heart.  We  can- 
not always  yield  ourselves  to  the  hidden  spell.  But  in 
the  soft  light  of  her  eye  genius  basks,  till  it  is  warmed 
into  a  new  and  sweeter  life.  The  poet  is  indeed  kindled 
by  communion  with  the  most  lovely  creation  of  God. 
He  is  subdued  by  the  sweetest  of  human  influences. 
His  wings  are  plumed  beside  the  fountain  of  love,  and  he 
soars  thence  to  heaven. 


202 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


The  poetical  temperament  is  now  better  and  more 
generally  understood  than  formerly.  Physiologists  and 
moral  philosophers  have  laboured,  not  without  success,  to 
diffuse  correct  ideas  of  its  laws  and  liabilities.  Educa- 
tion now  averts,  in  frequent  instances,  the  fatal  errors  to 
which  beings  thus  organized  are  peculiarly  exposed. 
No  one  has  more  truly  described  some  features  of  the 
poet's  fate  than  the  author  of  Tarn  O'Shanter  and  the 
Cotter's  Saturday  Night : — 

Creature,  though  oft  the  prey  of  care  and  sorrow, 
When  blest  to-day,  unmindful  of  to-morrow; 
A  being  formed  t'  amuse  his  graver  friends, 
Admired  and  praised — and  there  the  homage  ends; 
A  mortal  quite  unfit  for  fortune's  strife, 
Yet  oft  the  sport  of  all  the  ills  of  life  ; 
Prone  to  enjoy  each  pleasure  riches  give, 
Yet  haply  wanting  wherewithal  to  live; 
Longing  to  wipe  each  tear,  to  heal  each  groan, 
Yet  frequent  all  unheeded  in  his  own. 

The  love  of  excitement,  the  physical  and  moral  sensi- 
bility, the  extremes  of  mood,  which  belong  to  this  class 
of  men,  require  a  certain  discipline  on  the  one  hand  and 
indulgence  on  the  other,  which  is  now  more  readily 
accorded.  Especially  do  we  look  with  a  more  just  eye 
upon  the  frailties  of  poets.  It  is  not  necessary  to  defend 
them.  They  are  only  the  more  lamentable  from  being 
connected  with  high  powers.  But  it  is  a  satisfaction  to 
trace  their  origin  to  unfavourable  circumstances  of  life 
and  peculiarities  of  organization.  Burns  laboured  under 
the  disadvantage  of  a  narrow  and  oppressive  destiny, 
opposed  to  a  sensitive  and  exalted  soul.  From  the  depths 
of  obscure  poverty  he  awoke  to  fame.  Strong  and  adroit 
as  he  was  at  the  several  vocations  of  husbandry,  he  pos- 
sessed no  tact  as  a  manager  or  financier.  With  the 
keenest  relish  for  enjoyment,  his  means  were  small,  and 
the  claims  of  his  family  unceasing.    Susceptible  to  the 


BURNS. 


203 


most  refined  influences  of  nature,  quick  of  apprehension, 
and  endowed  with  a  rich  fancy,  his  animal  nature  was 
not  less  strongly  developed.  His  flaming  heart  lighted 
not  only  the  muse's  torch,  but  the  tempest  of  passion. 
He  often  sought  to  drown  care  in  excess.  He  did  not 
faithfully  struggle  with  the  allurements  which  in  reality 
he  despised.  How  deeply  he  felt  the  transitory  nature 
of  human  enjoyment,  he  has  told  us  in  a  series  of  beauti- 
ful similes  : — 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flow'r,  its  bloom  is  shed  ; 
Or  like  the  snow  falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever  ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. 

Tossed  on  the  waves  of  an  incongruous  experience,  ele- 
vated by  his  gifts,  depressed  by  his  condition,  the  heir  of 
fame,  but  the  child  of  sorrow — gloomy  in  view  of  his 
actual  prospects,  elated  by  his  poetic  visions, — the  life  of 
Burns  was  no  ordinary  scene  of  trial  and  temptation. 
While  we  pity,  let  us  reverence  him.  Let  us  glory  in 
such  fervent  songs  as  he  dedicated  to  love,  friendship, 
patriotism  and  nature.  True  bursts  of  feeling  came  from 
the  honest  bosom  of  the  ploughman.  Sad  as  was  his 
career  at  Dumfries,  anomalous  as  it  seems  to  picture  him 
as  an  exciseman,  how  delightful  his  image  as  a  noble 
peasant  and  ardent  bard  !  What  a  contradiction  between 
his  human  existence  and  his  inspired  soul !  Literature 
enshrines  few  more  endeared  memorials  than  the  poems 
of  Burns.  His  lyre  is  wreathed  with  wild-flowers.  Its 
tones  are  simple  and  glowing.  Their  music  is  like  the 
cordial  breeze  of  his  native  hills.  It  still  cheers  the  ban- 
quet, and  gives  expression  to  the  lover's  thought.  Its 


204 


THOUGHTS    ON   THE  POETS. 


pensive  melody  has  a  twilight  sweetness;  its  tender  ardour 
is  melting  as  the  sunbeams.  Around  the  cottage  and 
the  moor,  the  scene  of  humble  affection,  the  rite  of  lowly- 
piety,  it  has  thrown  a  hallowed  influence,  which  embalms 
the  memory  of  Burns,  and  breathes  perpetual  masses  for 
his  soul. 


CAMPBELL. 


There  are  two  prominent  sources  of  poetry — fantasy 
and  feeling.  In  a  few  men  of  genius  they  are  so  equally 
mingled  as  scarcely  to  be  distinguished,  and  their  happy 
combination  is  doubtless  the  perfection  of  the  art.  It  is 
easy,  however,  to  perceive  of  late  a  growing  disposition 
to  undervalue  vigorous  and  earnest  verse  and  exalt  at  its 
expense  the  more  dreamy  and  careless  effusions  of  fancy. 
A  certain  order  of  critics  go  so  far  as  to  confine  the  name 
of  poetry  only  to  the  latter.  The  only  bard  they  recog- 
nize is  he  who  throws  into  rhythmical  form  the  most  un- 
connected and  fantastic  images  he  can  command — whose 
sentiment  springs  from  vague  musing  rather  than  real 
emotion,  and  whose  metaphors  are  ingeniously  fanciful. 
A  speculative  reverie,  a  visionary  experience  like  that  of 
the  Opium  Eater, — an  elaborate  mysticism  seems  to  origi- 
nate this  species  of  verse.  It  appears  the  result  of  an 
excess  of  one  poetical  element.  Imagination  is,  indeed, 
an  essential  of  poetry,  but  with  it  must  blend  thought 
enough  to  give  energy,  and  feeling  sufficient  to  awaken  a 
human  glow,  or  the  result  is  as  coldly  brilliant  as  frost  by 
moonlight. 

The  mood  in  which  such  poetry  is  conceived  is  often 
one  of  the  most  fascinating  we  experience.  It  is  that 
state  which  Irving  significantly  calls  day-dreaming.  In 
the  pleasing  languor  of  a  summer  noon,  amid  the  vast 
monotonv  of  the  ocean,  or  when  seated  by  a  lonely  fire- 
12 


206 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


side  at  midnight,  we  often  instinctively  yield  to  a  train 
of  thought  which  soothes  by  its  very  waywardness.  The 
mind  escapes  from  its  work-day  round  and  expatiates  at 
its  own  free  will.  In  such  lawless  excursions  many  a 
striking  picture  is  suggested  and  rare  spirit  evoked,  but 
it  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  they  can  be  indiscriminately 
transferred  to  the  poet's  page  with  good  effect.  And  yet 
there  are  writers  who  place  such  a  value  upon  these 
crude  and  unorganized  products  of  their  fancy  as  to  throw 
them  forth  without  exercising  either  taste  or  reflection. 
If  poetry  is  an  art,  not  thus  is  it  to  be  written.  German 
literature  and  the  example  of  Shelley,  Wordsworth  and 
other  metaphysical  writers,  have  induced  among  less 
gifted  spirits,  too  complete  a  reliance  upon  fantasy  as  the 
source  of  poetry.  A  certain  degree  of  fact  and  feeling, 
of  clearness  of  purpose  and  strength  of  thought,  of  direct 
language  and  sincere  ardour  is  essential,  if  not  to  poetry 
in  general,  at  least  to  that  poetry  which  will  move  the 
Saxon  heart.  It  is  this  conviction  which  enables  us  to 
revert  with  pleasure  to  that  class  of  poets  whose  attrac- 
tion lies  in  their  manliness  and  enthusiasm — who  feel 
strongly  and  express  themselves  with  a  cheering  vivacity. 
Not  always  would  we  be  lulled  by  the  minstrel,  or  led 
through  the  mystic  windings  of  a  flowery  labyrinth. 
There  are  times  when  we  love  the  trumpet's  note  better 
than  the  iEolian  harp  ;  when  the  mountain  air  is  sweeter 
than  the  odours  of  the  East — the  bard  of  hope  is  more 
welcome  than  Coleridge  or  Tennyson. 

The  spirit  of  Campbell's  muse  is  chivalric  and  gene- 
rous. We  readily  understand  the  quick  sensibility  he  is 
said  to  have  manifested  at  any  instance  of  injustice,  after 
communing  with  his  poetry.  He  seems  to  have  inherited 
not  a  little  of  the  brave  sympathies  of  the  old  clan  whose 
name  he  bears.  With  the  cause  of  Freedom  his  name  is 
nobly  identified.    His  "  Song  of  the  Greeks,"  and  the 


CAMPBELL. 


207 


finest  episode  of  his  long  poem  which  so  glowingly  de- 
picts the  fate  of  Poland,  afford  thrilling  proofs  of  his  at- 
tachment to  liberty.  With  the  cause  of  the  latter  nation 
his  private  exertions  as  well  as  public  appeals  have  com- 
pletely and  most  honourably  identified  his  name.  His 
ardent  love  of  music  might  have  been  inferred  from  his 
versification,  which  is  often  singularly  melodious  and  al- 
most invariably  affecting.  Campbell  must  certainly  be 
placed  in  the  rank  of  fortunate  bards.  Although  no  elabo- 
rate and  frequent  triumphs  succeeded  his  early  success, 
an  uncommon  proportion  of  what  he  has  published  has 
been  deservedly  popular.  If  his  minor  and  casual  lite- 
rary efforts,  during  the  last  forty  years,  have  not  added 
to  his  laurels  they  have  proved  occasions  of  agreeable 
occupation  and  pecuniary  advantage.  His  domestic  rela- 
tions were  remarkably  happy  though  early  interrupted 
by  death.  His  social  privileges  and  his  opportunities  for 
literary  improvement  have  been  great.  He  has  enjoyed 
the  friendship  of  the  gifted  in  the  various  walks  of  intel- 
lectual life  in  England,  and  his  existence  has  been  plea- 
santly divided  between  mental  application  and  the  enjoy- 
ment of  Nature  and  congenial  fellowship.  It  was  the  rare 
good  fortune  of  Campbell  to  break  at  once  upon  the  world 
as  a  poet  in  the  hey-day  of  youth.  His  "  Pleasures  of 
Hope"  have  certainly  not  proved  illusive.  They  imme- 
diately won  for  him  the  admiration  of  all  classes  of  read- 
ers, and  the  handsome  annuity  of  two  hundred  pounds  so 
justly  awarded  to  him  on  their  publication,  was  continued 
until  his  death.  Few  modem  poets  have  reaped  a  more 
bountiful  harvest  of  fame  and  comfort  from  their  labours, 
and  few  have  proved  themselves  more  worthy  of  the 
distinction. 

The  direct  style  and  decided  tone  of  the  minstrel  whose 
heart  is  the  fountain  of  his  verse,  wins  him  a  larger  if 
not  so  select  an  audience  than  belongs  to  the  more  refined 


208  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


and  imaginative.  He  speaks  a  language  of  universal 
import.  He  gives  expression  to  sentiments  not  peculiar 
but  general.  The  obligation  under  which  he  places  his 
fellow  beings  is  that  of  having  given  "  a  local  habitation 
and  a  name"  to  feelings  deeply  enshrined  in  their  breasts, 
but  hitherto  wanting  an  adequate  voice — 

"  What  oft  was  felt,  but  ne'er  so  well  expressed." 
The  poetry  of  abstract  imagination,  the  undefined,  wild 
and  mystical  shapings  of  thought,  have  their  interest  and 
value,  but  to  appreciate  them  it  is  not  requisite  for  us  to 
be  insensible  to  the  more  clear  and  artless  effusions  of  the 
muse.  These  fix  the  attention  at  once,  impress  the 
memory  and  kindle  the  heart.  In  such  strains  would  we 
ever  see  recorded  the  lessons  of  patriotism  and  the  sim- 
ple overflowing  of  affection.  They  occupy  the  same 
relation  to  more  fanciful  poetry  that  popular  oratory  does 
to  philosophical  reasoning,  the  letter  of  friendship  to  the 
studied  essay,  the  household  song  to  the  intricate  compo- 
sition. Campbell  is  a  delightful  representative  of  this 
class  of  poets.  If  we  should  choose  a  single  term  to 
indicate  his  attractiveness,  we  would  call  him  spirited. 
The  greater  part  of  his  verse  is  glowing  and  alive.  It 
bears  not  the  air  of  vague  reverie  and  listless  musing,  but 
of  a  mind  full  of  its  subject.  He  does  not  dally  with  the 
muse  but  seeks  her  favour  in  a  manly  and  ardent  manner. 
He  is  not  dainty  and  elaborate,  but  impassioned  and  vivid. 
He  seems  to  be  thoroughly  in  earnest — a  quality  not  less 
essential  than  rare.  He  is  moved  by  a  decided  sentiment 
and  hence  conveys  a  strong  impression.  In  a  word  he 
is  one  of  those  poets  whose  sympathies  must  be  excited 
before  they  can  write.  The  mere  habit  of  versification, 
the  passing  wish  of  a  moment,  or  some  conventional  mo- 
tive are  quite  insufficient  to  elicit  the  gems  of  such  a  bard.  4 
Accordingly  they  are  either  eminently  successful  or  sig- 
nally indifferent.    Much  absurd  prejudice  with  regard  to 


CAMPBELL. 


209 


what  is  called  the  poetry  of  passion  has  been  induced  by 
the  numberless  critics  of  Byron.  Because  his  life  was 
irregular  and  his  mind  sometimes  fevered  rather  than 
warmed  into  action,  it  has  been  argued  that  true  poetry 
is  wholly  contemplative.  As  if  we  were  never  to  be 
roused  as  well  as  soothed,  as  if  stagnation  were  not 
equally  false  to  our  nature  as  violence,  and  as  if  there 
were  not  seasons  and  subjects  which  claimed  and  justified 
a  wholesome  and  deep  enthusiasm.  One  of  Campbell's 
terse  and  awakening  lines  admirably  defines  the  nature 
of  his  own  poetry  :  "  For  song  is  but  the  eloquence  of 
truth."  He  does  not  dilate  with  artist-like  taste  upon  the 
minute  graces  of  nature,  he  seldom  displays  a  dramatic 
or  picturesque  talent,  but  he  gives  forcible,  bold  and  mov- 
ing utterance  to  sentiments  of  bravery,  moral  indignation 
and  devoted  love.  In  the  genial  animation  of  friendly 
converse  we  are  often  surprised  at  a  felicity  of  diction  or 
an  effective  metaphor.  The  same  unpremeditated  touch- 
es of  beauty  or  vigour  distinguish  the  writings  which  pro- 
ceed from  strong  feeling.  The  unusual  number  of  Camp- 
bell's lines  which  have  become  proverbial  illustrates  this 
truth.  We  scarcely  remember,  when  we  use  such  familiar 
expressions  as  "  angels'  visits,  few  and  far  between" — " 't  is 
distance  lends  enchantment  to  the  view" — "  coming  events 
cast  their  shadows  before,"  that  they  originated  with 
Campbell.  It  would  indeed  be  difficult  to  name  a  modern 
English  poet  whose  works  are N  more  closely  entwined 
with  our  early  associations  or  whose  happier  efforts  lin- 
ger more  pleasantly  in  the  memory. 

Campbell  is  one  of  the  kings  of  school  literature  in  this 
country.  More  dazzling  species  of  fame  may  reward 
other  minstrels ;  to  be  the  cherished  by  the  virtuous  and 
meditative  like  Wordsworth,  to  be  the  favourite  of  social 
circles  like  Moore,  or  the  idol  of  a  chosen  few  like  Shel- 
ley, is  no  undesirable  destiny  for  a  poet.    But  to  a  kindly 


210  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

heart  what  can  be  sweeter  than  the  homage  of  youth  ? 
To  a  sympathising  mind  how  consoling  is  the  thought 
of  having  guided  the  generous  impulses  of  boyhood 
toward  freedom  and  truth  by  the  charm  of  song!  The 
fine  speculations  of  the  visionary,  the  cold  logic  of  the 
learned  have  no  fascination  for  the  impatient  heart  of  the 
young.  When  "  years  that  bring  the  philosophic  mind" 
have  matured  the  judgment  and  tempered  the  feelings, 
highly  thoughtful  and  imaginative  poetry  weaves  its 
quiet  spell  with  grateful  power.  But  before  that  period, 
a  clear  and  trumpet-toned  appeal  is  needed ;  the  muse 
must  wear  a  fresh  aspect  and  bound  like  Hebe  in  our 
pathway  full  of  life  and  beauty,  or  charm  with  the  spell 
of  overpowering  pathos.  Language  must  come  in  bold 
and  stirring  notes  ;  the  idea  must  be  simple,  the  sentiment 
true,  the  image  affecting,  or  the  appeal  is  vain.  And  the 
same  is  true  in  .no  small  degree  in  later  years.  In  the 
hour  of  retirement  and  intellectual  luxury  we  turn  with 
zest  to  all  the  masters  of  the  art ;  but  the  bard  who  would 
arrest  the  attention  of  eager  and  busy  manhood  on  his 
crowded  path,  must  address  him  in  frank  and  comprehen- 
sive terms,  and  awaken  the  sleeping  echoes  of  his  heart 
with  a  lofty  and  clear  strain.  When  Croly,  in  his  ode 
to  Death,  speaks  of  the 

»  "  Bards,  sages,  heroes  side  by  side, 

Who  darkened  nations  when  they  died  ;" 

or  Byron  in  his  monody  on  Sheridan,  exclaims  that 

"  Folly  loves  the  maryrdom  of  fame" 

or  Sprague  declares  that 

"  Rulers  and  ruled  in  common  gloom  may  lie, 
But  Nature's  laureate  bard  shall  never  die," 

we  instantly  receive  the  poet's  thought  and  respond  to 
his  sentiment.    And  such  simple  force  of  language  and 


CAMPBELL. 


211 


vigour  of  expression,  is  valuable  for  the  very  reason  that 
it  is  so  easily  comprehended  and  so  immediately  felt. 
Many  such  expressive  touches  occur  in  the  poetry  of 
Campbell.  In  his  lines  to  the  Rainbow,  two  circum- 
stances are  introduced  with  striking  conciseness  : 

"  "\Vhen  o'er  the  green,  undeluged  earth 

Heaven's  covenant  thou  didst  shine, 
How  came  the  world's  gray  fathers  forth 

To  watch  thy  sacred  sign  ! 
And  when  its  yellow  lustre  smiled 

O'er  mountains  yet  untrod, 
Each  mother  held  aloft  her  child 

To  bless  the  bow  of  God." 

An  instance  of  similar  terseness  and  meaning  may  be 
found  in  the  Valedictory  Stanzas  to  Kemble : 

1  For  ill  can  Poetry  express 

Full  many  a  tone  of  thought  sublime, 
And  Painting  mute  and  motionless, 

Steals  but  a  glance  from  time. 
But  by  the  mighty  actor  brought, 

Illusion's  perfect  triumphs  come, 
Verse  ceases  to  be  airy  thought 

And  Sculpture  to  be  dumb*' 

The  description  of  an  Indian  chief  in  "  Gertrude,"  affords 
another  illustration  : 

"  As  monumental  bronze  unchanged  his  look  ; 
A  soul  that  pity  touched  but  never  shook  ; 
Trained  from  its  tree-rocked  cradle  to  his  bier, 
The  fierce  extreme  of  good  and  ill  to  brook, 
Impassive — fearing  but  the  shame  of  fear — 
A  stoic  of  the  woods,  a  man  without  a  tear." 

He  finely  compares  the  humming  bird's  wings  to 
"  atoms  of  the  rainbow  fluttering  round,"  and  calls  ab- 
sence "the  pain  without  the  peace  of  death."  Madame 
de  Stael  says  that  the  fragility  of  delight  constitutes  the 
great  secret  of  its  charm.    How  graphically  has  Camp- 


212 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


bell  portrayed  in  a  single  line  the  evanescent  character 
of  human  pleasure: 

"  And  in  the  visions  of  romantic  youth 

What  years  of  endless  bliss  are  yet  to  flow  ! 
But.  mortal  pleasure,  what  art  thou  in  truth  ? 
The  torrent's  smoothness  ere  it  dash  below.** 

The  enthusiasm  with  which  the  "  Pleasures  of  Hope' 
were  written  is  evinced  by  the  eloquent  liveliness  of  the 
strain,  and  not  less  by  the  poet's  frequent  recurrence  to 
the  main  subject,  and  the  fresh  ardour  with  which  he 
resumes  after  a  slight  digression.  He  constantly  ad- 
dresses Hope  anew,  as  auspicious,  primeval,  eternal,  con- 
genial, the  angel  of  life  and  the  friend  of  the  brave. 
The  praise  of  Love  and  the  protest  against  Scepticism  in 
this  poem,  are  among  the  best  examples  of  heroic  verse  in 
the  language.  "  Theodric"  is  conceived  in  a  more  fami- 
liar vein,  but  contains  some  very  beautiful  developments 
of  sentiment.  The  half-pastoral,  half-romantic  spirit  of 
"  Gertrude  of  Wyoming"  has  long  made  it  a  distin- 
guished favourite.  But  the  martial  lyrics  of  Campbell 
have  been  his  great  sources  of  renown.  In  early  life  he 
visited  Germany,  then  the  theatre  of  war,  and  carried 
from  that  country  very  vivid  impressions.  He  saw  from 
his  carriage  window,  a  troop  of  hussars  on  their  way  from 
the  field,  wiping  the  blood  from  their  sabres  on  the  manes 
of  their  horses.  The  effect  of  these  scenes  upon  his  ima- 
gination is  easily  recognised  in  the  awakening  lines  of 
"  Lochiel,"  and  the  rhythmical  magic  of  "  Hohenlinden," 
"  The  Battle  of  the  Baltic,"  and  "  Mariners  of  England." 
And  we  have  a  more  tender  revelation  of  the  associations 
of  war  in  the  "  Soldier's  Dream."  Were  we  to  select  the 
most  impressive  specimen  of  Campbell's  command  of 
thought  and  metre,  of  his  skill  in  making  "  sound  an 
echo  to  the  sense,"  it  would  be  certain  stanzas  of  the 
noble  ode  entitled  "  Hallowed  Ground."    An  elocution- 


CAMPBELL. 


213 


ist  of  genius  and  sensibility,  can  give  to  this  poem  a 
most  solemn  effect,  resembling  the  mingled  elevation  and 
delight  which  steals  over  us  in  a  Gothic  church.  How 
lofty  the  sentiment  and  musical  the  flow  of  the  following 
verses  : 

u  What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'Tis  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom  ; 
Or  Genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

"But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind, 
Whose  sword  and  voice  has  served  mankind — 
And  is  he  dead  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ?" 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind 

Is  not  to  die. 

"  Is 't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right  ? 
He's  dead  alone  who  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws  : — 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 
A  noble  cause ! 

"  Give  that !  and  welcome  War  to  brace 
Her  drums,  and  rend  Heaven's  reeking  face  . 
The  colours  planted  face  to  face, 

The  charging  cbeer, 
Though  death's  pale  horse  led  on  the  chase, 

Shall  still  be  dear. 

"  What's  hallowed  ground  ?    'Tis  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth  ! 
Peace  !  Independence  !  Truth  !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round; 
And  your  high  priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground." 


WORDSWORTH. 


In  an  intellectual  history  of  our  age,  the  bard  of  Rydal 
Mount  must  occupy  a  prominent  place.  His  name  is  so 
intimately  associated  with  the  poetical  criticisms  of  the 
period,  that,  even  if  his  productions  are  hereafter  neglect- 
ed, he  cannot  wholly  escape  consideration.  The  mere 
facts  of  his  life  will  preserve  his  memory.  It  will  not  be 
forg-o'ten  that  one  among  the  men  of  acknowledged 
genius  in  England,  during  a  period  of  great  political  ex- 
citement, and  when  society  accorded  to  literary  success 
the  highest  honours,  should  voluntarily  remain  secluded 
amid  the  mountains,  the  uncompromising  advocate  of  a 
theory,  from  time  to  time  sending  forth  his  effusions,  as 
uncoloured  by  the  poetic  taste  of  the  time,  as  statues  from 
an  isolated  quarry.  It  has  been  the  fortune  of  Words- 
worth, like  many  original  characters,  to  be  almost  wholly 
regarded  from  the  two  extremes  of  prejudice  and  admira- 
tion. The  eclectic  spirit,  which  is  so  appropriate  to  the 
criticism  of  Art,  has  seldom  swayed  his  commentators. 
It  has  scarcely  been  admitted,  that  his  works  may  please 
to  a  certain  extent,  and  in  particular  traits,  and  in  other 
respects  prove  wholly  uncongenial.  Whoever  recognizes 
his  beauties  is  held  responsible  for  his  system  ;  and  those 
who  have  stated  his  defects,  have  been  unfairly  ranked 
with  the  insensible  and  unreasonable  reviewers  who  so 
fiercely  assailed  him  at  the  outset  of  his  career.  There 
is  a  medium  ground,  from  which  we  can  survey  the  sub- 


WORDSWORTH. 


215 


ject  to  more  advantage.    From  this  point  of  observation, 
it  is  easy  to  perceive  that  there  is  reason  on  both  sides 
of  the  question.    It  was  natural  and  just  that  the  lovers 
of  poetry,  reared  in  the  school  of  Shakspere,  should  be 
repelled  at  the  outset  by  a  new  minstrel,  whose  prelude 
was  an  argument.    It  was  like  being  detained  at  the  door 
of  a  cathedral  by  a  dull  cicerone,  who,  before  granting 
admittance,  must  needs  deliver  a  long  homily  on  the 
grandeur  of  the  interior,  and  explain  away  its  deficien- 
cies.   "  Let  us  enter,"  we  impatiently  exclaim :  "  if  the 
building  is  truly  grand,  its  sublimity  needs  no  expositor  ; 
if  it  is  otherwise,  no  reasoning  will  render  it  impressive." 
The  idea  of  adopting  for  poetical  objects  "  the  real  lan- 
guage of  men,  when  in  a  vivid  state  of  sensation,"  was  in- 
deed, as  Coleridge  observes,  never  strictly  attempted  ;  but 
there  was  something  so  deliberate,  and  even  cold,  in  Words- 
worth's first  appeal,  that  we  cannot  wonder  it  was  unat- 
tractive.   Byron  and  Burns  needed  no  introduction.  The 
earnestness  of  their  manner  secured  instant  attention. 
Their  principles  and  purposes  were  matters  of  after- 
thought.   Whoever  is  even  superficially  acquainted  with 
human  nature,  must  have  prophecied  a  doubtful  reception 
to  a  bard,  who  begins  by  calmly  stating  his  reasons  for 
considering  prose  and  verse  identical,  his  wish  to  incul- 
cate certain  truths  which  he  deemed  neglected,  and  the 
several  considerations  which  induced  him  to  adopt  rhyme 
for  the  purpose.    Nor  is  this  feeling  wholly  unworthy  of 
respect,  even  admitting,  with  Wordsworth,  that  mere 
popularity  is  no  evidence  of  the  genuineness  of  poetry. 
Minds  of  poetical  sensibility  are  accustomed  to  regard  the 
true  poet  as  so  far  inspired  by  his  experience,  as  to  write 
from  a  spontaneous  enthusiasm.    They  regard  verse  as 
his  natural  element — the  most  congenial  form  of  expres- 
sion.   They  imagine  he  can  scarcely  account  wholly  to 
himself,  far  less  to  others,  for  his  diction  and  imagery, — • 


216 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


any  farther  than  they  are  the  result  of  emotion  too  intense 
and  absorbing  to  admit  of  any  conscious  or  reflective 
process.    Even  if  "  poetry  takes  its  origin  from  emotion 
recollected  in  tranquillity,"  it  must  be  of  that  earnest  and 
tender  kind,  which  is  only  occasionally  experienced. 
Trust,  therefore,  was  not  readily  accorded  a  writer  who 
scarcely  seemed  enamoured  of  his  Art,  and  presented  a 
theory  in  prose  to  win  the  judgment,  instead  of  first 
taking  captive  the  heart  by  the  music  of  his  lyre.  Nor 
is  this  the  only  just  cause  of  Wordsworth's  early  want 
of  appreciation.    He  has  not  only  written  too  much  from 
pure  reflection,  but  the  quantity  of  his  verse  is  wholly 
out  of  proportion  to  its  quality.    He  has  too  often  written 
for  the  mere  sake  of  writing.    The  mine  he  opened  may 
be  inexhaustible,  but  to  him  it  is  not  given  to  bring  to 
light  all  its  treasures.    His  characteristics  are  not  uni- 
versal.   His  power  is  not  unlimited.    On  the  contrary, 
his  points  of  peculiar  excellence,  though  rare,  are  com- 
paratively few.    He  has  endeavoured  to  extend  his  range 
beyond  its  natural  bounds.    In  a  word,  he  has  written 
too  much,  and  too  indiscriminately.    It  is  to  be  feared 
that  habit  has  made  the  work  of  versifying  necessary, 
and  he  has  too  often  resorted  to  it  merely  as  an  occupa- 
tion.   Poetry  is  too  sacred  to  be  thus  mechanically  pur- 
sued.   The  true  bard  seizes  only  genial  periods,  and 
inciting  themes.    He  consecrates  only  his  better  moments 
to  "  the  divinest  of  arts."    He  feels  that  there  is  a  cor- 
respondence between  certain  subjects  and  his  individual 
genius,  and  to  these  he  conscientiously  devotes  his  pow- 
ers.   Wordsworth  seems  to  have  acted  on  a  different 
principle.    It  is  obvious  to  a  discerning  reader  that  his 
muse  is  frequently  whipped  into  service.    He  is  too  often 
content  to  indite  a  series  of  common-place  thoughts,  and 
memorialize  topics  which  have  apparently  awakened  in 
his  mind  only  a  formal  interest.    It  sometimes  seems  as 


W  OR  DS WORTH. 


217 


if  he  had  taken  up  the  business  of  a  bard,  and  felt  bound 
to  fulfil  its  functions.  His  political  opinions,  his  histori- 
cal reading,  almost  every  event  of  personal  experience, 
must  be  chronicled,  in  the  form  of  a  sonnet  or  blank  verse. 
The  language  maybe  chaste,  the  sentiment  unexception- 
able, the  moral  excellent,  and  yet  there  may  be  no  poetry, 
aud  perhaps  the  idea  has  been  often  better  expressed  in 
prose.  Even  the  admirers  of  Wordsworth  are  compelled, 
therefore,  to  acknowledge,  that  with  all  his  unrivalled 
excellencies,  he  has  written  too  many 

"  Such  lays  as  neither  ebb  nor  flow, 
Correctly  cold,  and  regularly  slow." 

Occasional  felicities  of  style  do  not  atone  for  such  frequent 
desecration  of  the  muse.  We  could  forgive  them  in  a 
less-gifted  minstrel ;  but  with  one  of  Wordsworth's  geni- 
us it  is  more  difficult  to  compromise.  The  number  of 
his  indifferent  attempts  shade  the  splendour  of  his  real 
merit.  The  poems  protected  by  his  fame,  which  are  un- 
inspired by  his  genius,  have  done  much  to  blind  a  large 
class  of  readers  to  his  intrinsic  worth.  Another  circum- 
stance has  contributed  to  the  same  result.  His  redeem- 
ing graces  often,  from  excess,  become  blemishes.  In 
avoiding  the  tinsel  of  a  meretricious  style,  he  sometimes 
degenerates  into  positive  homeliness.  In  rejecting  pro- 
fuse ornament,  he  often  presents  his  conceptions  in  so 
bald  a  manner  as  to  prove  utterly  unattractive.  His  sim- 
plicity is  not  unfrequently  childish,  his  calmness  stagna- 
tion, his  pathos  puerility.  And  these  impressions,  in 
some  instances,  have  been  allowed  to  outweigh  those 
which  his  more  genuine  qualities  inspire.  For  when  we 
reverse  the  picture,  Wordsworth  presents  claims  to  grate^ 
ful  admiration,  second  to  no  poet  of  the  age  ;  and  no  sus- 
ceptible and  observing  mind  can  study  his  writings  with- 
out yielding  him  at  least  this  cordial  acknowledgment. 
It  is  not  easy  to  estimate  the  happy  influence  Wordsworth 
13 


218 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


has  exerted  upon  poetical  taste  and  practice,  by  the  exam- 
ple he  has  given  of  a  more  simple  and  artless  style. 
Like  the  sculptors  who  lead  their  pupils  to  the  anatomy 
of  the  human  frame,  and  the  painters  who  introduced  the 
practice  of  drawing  from  the  human  figure,  Wordsworth 
opposed  to  the  artificial  and  declamatory,  the  clear  and 
natural  in  diction.  He  exhibited,  as  it  were,  a  new 
source  of  the  elements  of  expression.  He  endeavoured, 
and  with  singular  success,  to  revive  a  taste  for  less  excit- 
ing poetry.  He  boldly  tried  the  experiment  of  introduc- 
ing plain  viands,  at  a  banquet  garnished  with  all  the  art 
of  gastronomy.  He  offered  to  substitute  crystal  water 
for  ruddy  wine,  and  invited  those  accustomed  only  to  "  a 
sound  of  revelry  by  night,"  to  go  forth  and  breathe  the 
air  of  mountains,  and  gaze  into  the  mirror  of  peaceful 
lakes.  He  aimed  to  persuade  men  that  they  could  be 
"  moved  by  gentler  excitements"  than  those  of  luxury 
and  violence.  He  essayed  to  calm  their  beating  hearts, 
to  cool  their  fevered  blood,  to  lead  them  gently  back  to 
the  fountains  that  "  go  softly."  He  bade  them  repose 
their  throbbing  brows  upon  the  lap  of  Nature.  He  qui- 
etly advocated  the  peace  of  rural  solitude,  the  pleasure  of 
evening  walks  among  the  hills,  as  more  salutary  than 
more  ostentatious  amusements.  The  lesson  was  suited 
to  the  period.  It  came  forth  from  the  retirement  of  Na- 
ture as  quietly  as  a  zephyr ;  but  it  was  not  lost  in  the 
hum  of  the  world.  Insensibly  it  mingled  with  the  noisy 
strife,  and  subdued  it  to  a  sweeter  murmur.  It  fell  upon 
the  heart  of  youth,  and  its  passions  grew  calmer.  It  im- 
parted a  more  harmonious  tone  to  the  meditations  of  the 
poet.  It  tempered  the  aspect  of  life  to  many  an  eager 
spirit,  and  gradually  weaned  the  thoughtful  from  the  en- 
croachments of  false  taste  and  conventional  habits.  To 
a  commercial  people  it  portrayed  the  attractiveness  of 
tranquillity.    Before  an  unhealthy  and  flashy  literature, 


WO  RDS WORTH. 


219 


it  set  up  a  standard  of  truthfulness  and  simplicity.  In  an 
age  of  mechanical  triumph,  it  celebrated  the  majestic  re- 
sources of  the  universe. 

To  this  calm  voice  from  the  mountains,  none  could 
listen  without  advantage.  What  though  its  tone?  were 
sometimes  monotonous  — they  were  hopeful  and  serene. 
To  listen  exclusively,  might  indeed  prove  wearisome ; 
but  in  some  placid  moments  those  mild  echoes  could  not 
but  bring  good  cheer.  In  the  turmoil  of  cities,  they 
refreshed  from  contrast ;  among  the  green  fields,  they 
inclined  the  mind  to  recognize  blessings  to  which  it  is 
often  insensible.  There  were  ministers  to  the  passions, 
and  apostles  of  learning,  sufficient  for  the  exigencies  of 
the  times.  Such  an  age  could  well  suffer  one  preacher 
of  the  simple,  the  natural  and  the  true  ;  one  advocate  of 
a  wisdom  not  born  of  books,  of  a  pleasure  not  obtaina- 
ble from  society,  of  a-satisfaction  underived  from  outward 
activity.  And  such  a  prophet  proved  William  Words- 
worth. 

Sensibility  to  Nature  is  characteristic  of  poets  in  gen- 
eral. Wordsworth's  feelings  in  this  regard  have  the 
character  of  affection.  He  does  not  break  out  into  ardent 
apostrophes  like  that  of  Byron  addressed  to  the  Ocean, 
or  Coleridge's  Hymn  atChamouni ;  but  his  verse  breathes 
a  constant  and  serene  devotion  to  all  the  charms  of  natu- 
ral scenery — from  the  mountain-range  that  bounds  the 
horizon,  to  the  daisy  beside  his  path : 

**  If  stately  passions  in  me  burn, 
And  one  chance  look  to  thee  I  turn, 
I  drink  out  of  an  humbler  urn, 

A  lowlier  pleasure  ; 
The  homelier  sympathy  that  heeds 
The  common  life  our  nature  breeds, 
A  wisdom  fitted  to  the  needs 

Of  hearts  at  ieasure." 


220 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


He  does  not  seem  so  much  to  resort  to  the  quiet  scenes 
of  the  country  for  occasional  recreation,  as  to  live  and 
breathe  only  in  their  tranquil  atmosphere.  His  interest 
in  the  universe  has  been  justly  called  personal.  It  is  not 
the  passion  of  a  lover  in  the  dawn  of  his  bliss,  nor  the 
unexpected  delight  of  a  metropolitan,  to  whose  sense 
rural  beauty  is  arrayed  in  the  charms  of  novelty;  but 
rather  the  settled,  familiar,  and  deep  attachment  of  a 
friend : 

"  Though  absent  long, 
These  forms  of  beauty  have  not  been  to  me 
As  is  a  landscape  to  a  blind  man's  eye  : 
But  oft  in  lonely  rooms,  and  'mid  the  din 
Of  towns  and  cities,  I  have  owed  to  them 
In  hours  of  weariness,  sensations  sweet, 
Felt  in  the  blood,  and  felt  along  the  heart; 
And  passing  even  into  my  purer  mind 
With  tranquil  restoration." 

The  life,  both  inward  and  outward,  of  Wordsworth,  is 
most  intimately  associated  with  lakes  and  mountains. 
Amid  them  he  was  born,  and  to  them  has  he  ever  looked 
for  the  necessary  aliment  of  his  being.  Nor  are  his 
feelings  on  the  subject  merely  passive  or  negative.  He 
has  a  reason  for  the  faith  that  is  in  him.  To  the  influ- 
ences of  Nature  he  brings  a  philosophic  imagination. 
No  transient  pleasure,  no  casual  agency,  does  he  ascribe 
to  the  outward  world.  In  his  view,  its  functions  in  rela- 
tion to  man  are  far  more  penetrating  and  efficient  than 
has  ever  been  acknowledged.  Human  education  he 
deems  a  process  for  which  the  Creator  has  made  adequate 
provision  in  this  "  goodly  frame"  of  earth  and  sea  and 
sky. 

"  He  had  small  need  of  books ;  for  many  a  Tale 
Traditionary,  round  the  mountains  hung; 
And  many  a  legend  peopling  the  dark  woods, 
Nourished  Imagination  in  her  growth, 


WORDSWORTH. 


221 


And  gave  the  Mind  that  apprehensive  power, 

By  which  it  is  made  quick  to  recognize 

The  moral  scope  and  aptitude  of  things." 
***** 

"  One  impulse  from  a  vernal  wood 

May  teach  you  more  of  man, 
Of  moral  evil  and  of  good, 

Than  all  the  sages  can." 

Accordingly,  both  in  details  and  combination,  Nature  has 
been  the  object  of  his  long  and  earnest  study.  To  illus- 
trate her  unobserved  and  silent  ministry  to  the  heart,  has 
been  his  favourite  pursuit.  From  his  poems  might  be 
gleaned  a  compendium  of  mountain  influences.  Even 
the  animal  world  is  viewed  in  the  same  light.  In  the 
much-ridiculed  Peter  Bell,  Susan,  and  the  White-Doe  of 
Rylstone,  we  have  striking  instances.  To  present  the 
affecting  points  of  its  relation  to  mankind  has  been  one 
of  the  most  daring  experiments  of  his  muse  : 

"  One  lesson,  shepherd,  let  us  two  divide, 
Taught  both  by  what  she  shows  and  what  conceals, 
Never  to  blend  our  pleasure  or  our  pride, 
With  sorrow  of  (he  meanest  thing  that  feels. 

It  is  the  common  and  universal  in  Nature  that  he  loves 
to  celebrate.  The  rare  and  startling  seldom  find  a  place 
in  his  verse.  That  calm,  soothing,  habitual  language, 
addressed  to  the  mind  by  the  common  air  and  sky,  the 
ordinary  verdure,  the  field-flower,  and  the  sunset,  is  the 
almost  invariable  theme  of  his  song.  And  herein  have 
his  labours  proved  chiefly  valuable.  They  have  tended 
to  make  us  more  reverent  listeners  to  the  daily  voices  of 
earth,  to  make  us  realize  the  goodness  of  our  common 
heritage,  and  partake,  with  a  more  conscious  and  grateful 
sensibility,  of  the  beautiful  around  us. 

In  the  same  spirit  has  Wordsworth  looked  upon  human 
life  and  history.    To  lay  bare  the  native  elements  of  char- 
acter in  its  simplest  form,  to  assert  the  essential  dignity 
13*= 


222 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


of  life  in  its  most  rude  and  common  manifestations,  to 
vindicate  the  interest  which  belongs  to  human  beings, 
simply  as  such,  have  been  the  darling  objects  of  his 
thoughts.  Instead  of  Corsairs  and  Laras,  peerless  ladies 
and  perfect  knights,  a  waggoner,  a  beggar,  a  potter,  a 
pedlar,  are  the  characters  of  whose  feelings  and  experi- 
ence he  sings.  The  operations  of  industry,  bereavement, 
temptation,  remorse  and  local  influences,  upon  these  chil- 
dren of  humble  toil,  have  furnished  problems  which  he 
delighted  to  solve.  And  who  shall  say  that  in  so  doing, 
he  has  not  been  of  signal  service  to  his  kind  ?  Who  shall 
say  that  through  such  portraits  a  wider  and  truer  sympa- 
thy, a  more  vivid  sense  of  human  brotherhood,  a  more 
just  self-respect,  has  not  been  extensively  awakened? 
Have  not  our  eyes  been  thus  opened  to  the  better  aspects 
of  ignorance  and  poverty  ?  Have  we  not  thus  been  made 
to  feel  the  true  claims  of  man  ?  Allured  by  the  gentle 
monitions  from  Kydal  Mount,  do  we  not  now  look  upon 
our  race  in  a  more  meek  and  susceptible  mood,  and  pass 
the  lowliest  being  beside  the  highway,  with  more  of  that 
new  sentiment  of  respect  and  hope  which  was  heralded 
by  the  star  of  Bethlehem  ?  Can  we  not  more  sincerely 
exclaim  with  the  hero  of  Sartor  Resartus :  "  Poor,  wan- 
dering, wayward  man  !  Art  thou  not  tried,  beaten  with 
many  stripes,  even  as  I  am  ?  Ever,  whether  thou  wear 
the  royal  mantle  or  the  beggar's  gaberdine,  art  thou  not 
so  weary,  so  heavy  laden  ?  O  !  my  brother,  my  brother  ! 
why  cannot  I  shelter  thee  in  my  bosom,  and  wipe  away 
all  tears  from  thine  eyes  ?" 

In  accordance  with  this  humane  philosophy,  Childhood 
is  contemplated  by  Wordsworth.  The  spirit  of  the  Sa- 
viour's sympathy  with  this  beautiful  era  of  life,  seems  to 
possess  his  muse.  Its  unconsciousness,  its  ignorance  of 
death,  its  trust,  hope  and  peace,  its  teachings,  and 
promise  he  has  portrayed  with  rare  sympathy.  Witness, 


WORDSWORTH. 


223 


w  We  are  Seven,"  the  "Pet  Lamb,"  and  especially  the 
Ode,  which  is  perhaps  the  finest  and  most  characteristic 
of  Wordworth's  compositions.  A  reader  of  his  poetry, 
who  imbibes  its  spirit,  can  scarcely  look  upon  the  young- 
with  indifference.  The  parent  must  thence  derive  a  new 
sense  of  the  sacredness  of  children,  and  learn  to  rever- 
ence their  innocence,  to  leave  unmarred  their  tender 
traits,  and  to  yield  them  more  confidently  to  the  influen- 
ces of  Nature.  In  his  true  and  feeling1  chronicles  of  the 
"  heaven"  that  "  lies  about  us  in  our  infancy,"  Words- 
worth has  uttered  a  silent  but  most  eloquent  reproach 
against  all  the  absurdities  and  sacrilegious  abuses  of  mod- 
ern education.  He  has  made  known  the  truth,  that  chil- 
dren have  their  lessons  to  convey  as  well  as  receive : 

*'  0  dearest,  dearest  boy,  my  heart 

For  better  lore  would  seldom  yearn, 
Could  I  but  teach  the  hundreth  part 

Of  what  from  thee  I  learn." 

He  has  made  more  evident  the  awful  chasm  between  the 
repose  and  hopefulness  of  happy  childhood,  and  the 
cynical  distrust  of  worldly  age.  He  thus  indirectly  but 
forcibly  appeals  to  men  for  a  more  guarded  preservation 
of  the  early  dew  of  existence,  so  recklessly  lavished  upon 
the  desert  of  ambition : 

"  Those  first  affections, 

Those  shadowy  recollections, 

Which,  be  they  what  they  may, 

Are  yet  the  fountain-light  of  all  our  day ; 

Are  yet  a  master-light  of  all  our  seeing ; 

Uphold  us,  cherish,  and  have  power  to  make 

Our  noisy  years  seem  moments  in  the  being 

Of  the  eternal  silence." 

He  has  exemplified  that  the  worst  evil  of  life  is  rather 
acquired  than  inherited,  and  vindicated  the  beneficent 
designs  of  the  Creator,  by  exhibiting  humanity  when 
fresh  from  his  hand.    This  is  a  high  moral  service.  Up- 


224 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


on  many  of  those  who  have  become  familiar  with  Words- 
worth in  youth,  such  impressions  must  have  been  perma- 
nent and  invaluable,  greatly  influencing  their  observation 
of  life  and  nature,  and  touching  "  to  finer  issues"  their 
unpledged  sympathies.  It  is  with  the  eye  of  a  medita- 
tive poet,  that  Wordsworth  surveys  life  and  nature.  And 
thus  inspired,  a  new  elevation  is  imparted  to  "  ordinary 
moral  sensations,"  and  it  is  the  sentiment  rather  than  the 
subject  which  gives  interest  to  the  song.  Hence  it  is  ab- 
solutely necessary  that  the  reader  should  sympathize  with 
the  feelings  of  the  poet,  to  enjoy  or  understand  him.  He 
appeals  to  that  contemplative  spirit  which  does  not  belong 
to  all,  and  visits  even  its  votaries  but  occasionally  ;  to  "a 
sadness  that  has  its  seat  in  the  depths  of  reason  ;"  he  pro- 
fesses to  "  follow  the  fluxes  and  refluxes  of  the  mind 
when  agitated  by  the  great  and  simple  affections  of  our 
nature."  To  enter  into  purposes  like  these,  there  must 
exist  a  delicate  sympathy  with  human  nature,  a  reflec- 
tive habit,  a  mingling  of  reason  and  fancy,  an  imagina- 
tion active  but  not  impassioned.  The  frame  of  mind 
which  he  labours  to  induce,  and  in  which  he  must  be 
read,  is 

*  That  sweet  mood  when  pleasure  loves  to  pay 
Tribute  to  ease  :  and,  of  its  joy  secure, 
The  heart  luxuriates  with  indifferent  things, 
Wasting  its  kindliness  on  stocks  and  stones, 
And  on  the  vacant  air  ;" 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  that  serene  and  blessed  mood, 

In  which  the  affections  gently  lead  us  on, 
Until  the  breath  of  this  corporeal  frame, 
And  even  the  motion  of  our  human  blood, 
Almost  suspended,  we  are  laid  asleep 
In  body,  and  become  a  living  soul. 
While,  with  an  eye  made  quiet  by  the  power 
Of  harmony,  and  the  deep  power  of  joy, 
We  aee  into  the  life  of  things." 


WORDSWORTH. 


225 


This  calm  and  holy  musing,  this  deep  and  intimate 
communion  with  Nature,  this  spirit  of  peace,  should 
sometimes  visit  us.  There  are  periods  when  passionate 
poetry  wearies,  and  a  lively  measure  is  discordant.  There 
are  times  when  we  are  calmed  and  softened,  and  it  is  a 
luxury  to  pause  and  forget  the  promptings  of  desire  and 
the  cares  of  life  ;  when  it  is  a  relief  to  leave  the  crowd 
and  wander  into  solitude,  when,  faint  and  disappointed, 
we  seek,  like  tired  children,  the  neglected  bosom  of  Na- 
ture, and  in  the  serenity  of  her  maternal  smile,  find  rest 
and  solace.  Such  moments  redeem  existence  from  its 
monotony,  and  refesh  the  human  heart  with  dew  from 
the  urns  of  Peace.  Then  it  is  that  the  bard  of  Rydal 
Mount  is  like  a  brother,  and  we  deeply  feel  that  it  is  good 
for  us  to  have  known  him. 


COLERIDGE. 


Coleridge  appears  to  have  excelled  all  his  cotempora- 
ries  in  personal  impressiveness.  Men  of  the  highest  tal- 
ent and  cultivation  have  recorded,  in  the  most  enthusias- 
tic terms,  the  intellectual  treat  his  conversation  afforded. 
The  fancy  is  captivated  by  the  mere  description  of  his 
fluent  and  emphatic,  yet  gentle  and  inspired  language. 
We  are  haunted  with  these  vivid  pictures  of  the  1  old 
man  eloquent,'  as  by  those  of  the  sages  of  antiquity,  and 
the  renowned  improvisatores  of  modern  times.  Hazlitt 
and  Lamb  seem  never  weary  of  the  theme.  They  make  us 
realize,  as  far  as  description  can,  the  affectionate  temper, 
the  simple  bearing,  and  earnest  intelligence  of  their  friend. 
We  feel  the  might  and  interest  of  a  living  soul,  and  sigh 
that  it  was  not  our  lot  to  partake  directly  of  its  overflow- 
ing gifts. 

Though  so  invaluable  as  a  friend  and  companion,  un- 
fortunately for  posterity,  Coleridge  loved  to  talk  and  read 
far  more  than  to  write.  Hence  the  records  of  his  mind 
bear  no  proportion  to  its  endowments  and  activity.  Ill- 
health  early  drew  him  from  "  life  in  motion,  to  life  in 
thought  and  sensation."  Necessity  drove  him  to  literary 
labour.  He  was  too  unambitious,  and  found  too  much 
enjoyment  in  the  spontaneous  exercise  of  his  mind,  to 
assume  willingly  the  toils  of  authorship.  His  mental 
tastes  were  not  of  a  popular  cast.  In  boyhood  he  "  wax- 
ed not  pale  at  philosophic  draughts,"  and  there  was  in  his 


COLERIDGE. 


227 


soul  an  aspiration  after  truth — an  interest  in  the  deep 
things  of  life — a  1  hungering  for  eternity,'  essentially 
opposed  to  success  as  a  miscellaneous  writer.  One  of  the 
most  irrational  complaints  against  Coleridge,  was  his  dis- 
like of  the  French.  Never  was  there  a  more  honest 
prejudice.  In  literature,  he  deemed  that  nation  responsi- 
ble for  having  introduced  the  artificial  school  of  poetry, 
which  he  detested ;  in  politics,  their  inhuman  atrocities, 
during  the  revolution,  blighted  his  dearest  theory  of  man  ; 
in  life,  their  frivolity  could  not  but  awaken  disgust  in  a 
mind  so  serious,  and^a  heart  so  tender,  where  faith  and 
love  were  cherished  in  the  very  depths  of  reflection  and 
sensibility.  It  is,  indeed,  easy  to  discover  in  his  works 
ample  confirmation  of  the  testimony  of  his  friends,  but 
they  afford  but  an  unfinished  monument  to  his  genius. 
We  must  be  content  with  the  few  memorials  he  has  left 
of  a  powerful  imagination  and  a  good  heart.  Of  these 
his  poems  furnish  the  most  beautiful.  They  are  the 
sweetest  echo  of  his  marvellous  spirit ; — 

A  song  divine,  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts, 
To  their  own  music  chaunted. 

The  eye  of  the  ancient  Mariner  holds  us,  in  its  wild 
spell,  as  it  did  the  wedding-guest,  while  we  feel  the  truth 
that 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things  both  great  and  small ; 

For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  charm  of  regretful  tenderness  is  upon  us  with  as 
sweet  a  mystery,  as  the  beauty  of  the  "  lady  of  a  far 
countrie,"  when  we  read  these  among  other  musical  lines 
of  Christabel : 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth  ; 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above  ; 


228  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


And  life  is  thorny ;  and  youth  is  vain 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  love, 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 

"  No  man  was  ever  yet  a  great  poet,  without  being  at  the 
same  time  a  profound  philosopher."  True  as  this  may 
be  in  one  sense,  we  hold  it  an  unfortunate  rule  for  a 
poetical  mind  to  act  upon.  It  was  part  of  the  creed  of 
Coleridge,  and  his  works  illustrate  its  unfavourable  influ- 
ence. His  prose,  generally  speaking,  is  truly  satisfactory 
only  when  it  is  poetical.  The  human  mind  is  so  consti- 
tuted as  to  desire  completeness.  The  desultory  character 
of  Coleridge's  prose  writings  is  often  wearisome  and  dis- 
turbing. He  does  not  carry  us  on  to  a  given  point  by  a 
regular  road,  but  is  ever  wandering  from  the  end  pro- 
posed. We  are  provoked  at  this  waywardness  the  more, 
because,  ever  and  anon,  we  catch  glimpses  of  beautiful 
localities,  and  look  down  most  inviting  vistas.  At  these 
promising  fields  of  thought,  and  vestibules  of  truth,  we 
aTe  only  permitted  to  glance,  and  then  are  unceremoni- 
ously hurried  off  in  the  direction  that  happens  to  please 
out  guide's  vagrant  humour.  This  desultory  style  essen- 
tially mars  the  interest  of  nearly  all  the  prose  of  this  dis- 
tinguished man.  Not  only  the  compositions,  but  the 
opinions,  habits,  and  experience  of  Coleridge,  partake  of 
the  same  erratic  character.  His  classical  studies  at 
Christ's  hospital  were  interwoven  with  the  reading  of  a 
circulating  library.  He  proposed  to  become  a  shoemaker 
while  he  was  studying  medicine.  He  excited  the  wonder 
of  every  casual  acquaintance  by  his  schoolboy  discourse, 
while  he  provoked  his  masters  by  starting  an  argument 
instead  of  repeating  a  rule.  He  incurred  a  chronic  rheu- 
matism by  swimming  with  his  clothes  on,  and  left  the 
sick  ward  to  enlist  in  a  regiment  of  dragoons.  He  laid 
magnificent  plans  of  primitive  felicity  to  be  realized  on 
the  banks  of  the  Susquehanna,  while  he  wandered  pen- 


COLERIDGE. 


229 


niless  in  the  streets  of  London.  He  was  at  different 
times  a  zealous  Unitarian,  and  a  high  Churchman — a 
political  lecturer — a  metaphysical  essayist — a  preacher — 
a  translator — a  traveller — a  foreign  secretary — a  philoso- 
pher—  an  editor — a  poet.  We  cannot  wonder  that  his 
productions,  particularly  those  that  profess  to  be  elaborate, 
should,  in  a  measure,  partake  of  the  variableness  of  his 
mood.  His  works,  like  his  life,  are  fragmentary.  He  is, 
too,  frequently  prolix,  labours  upon  topics  of  secondary 
interest,  and  excites  only  to  disappoint  expectation.  By 
many  sensible  readers  hjs  metaphysical  views  are  pro- 
nounced unintelligible,  and  by  some  German  scholars 
declared  arrant  plagiarisms.  These  considerations  are 
the  more  painful  from  our  sense  of  the  superiority  of  the 
man.  He  proposes  to  awaken  thought,  to  address  and 
call  forth  the  higher  faculties,  and  to  vindicate  the  claims 
of  important  truth.  Such  designs  claim  respect.  We 
honoun  the  author  who  conscientiously  entertains  them. 
We  seat  ourselves  reverently  at  the  feet  of  a  teacher 
whose  aim  is  so  exalted.  We  listen  with  curiosity  and 
hope.  Musical  are  many  of  the  periods,  beautiful  the 
images,  and  here  and  there  comes  a  single  idea  of  striking 
value ;  but  for  these  we  are  obliged  to  hear  many  discur- 
sive exordiums,  irrelevant  episodes  and  random  specula- 
tions. We  are  constantly  reminded  of  Charles  Lamb's 
reply  to  the  poet's  inquiry  if  he  had  ever  heard  him 
preach — '  I  never  knew  you  do  any  thing  else,'  said  Elia. 
It  is  highly  desirable  that  the  prose-writings  of  Coleridge 
should  be  thoroughly  winnowed.  A  volume  of  delight- 
ful aphorisms  might  thus  be  easily  gleaned.  Long  after 
we  have  forgotten  the  general  train  of  his  observations, 
isolated  remarks,  full  of  meaning  and  truth,  linger  in  our 
memories.  Scattered  through  his  works  are  many  say- 
ings, referring  to  literature  and  human  nature,  which 
would  serve  as  maxims  in  philosophy  and  criticism. 


230 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Their  effect  is  often  lost  from  the  position  they  occupy,  in 
the  midst  of  abstruse  or  dry  discussions  that  repel  the 
majority  even  of  truth-seekers.  His  Biographia  is  the 
most  attractive  of  his  prose  productions. 

It  is  not  difficult,  in  a  measure  at  least,  to  explain  or 
rather  account  for,  these  peculiarities.  Coleridge  him- 
self tells  us  that  in  early  youth,  he  indulged  a  taste  for 
metaphysical  speculations  to  excess.  He  was  fond  of 
quaint  and  neglected  authors.  He  early  imbibed  a  love 
of  controversy,  and  took  refuge  in  first  principles, — in  the 
elements  of  man's  nature  to  sustain  his  positions.  To 
this  ground  few  of  his  school -fellows  could  follow  him ; 
and  we  cannot  wonder  that  he  became  attached  to  a  field 
of  thought  seldom  explored,  and,  from  its  very  vague  and 
mystical  character,  congenial  to  him.  That  he  often  re- 
flected to  good  purpose  it  would  be  unjust  to  deny  ;  but 
that  his  own  consciousness,  at  times,  became  morbid,  and 
his  speculations,  in  consequence,  disjointed  and  misty, 
seems  equally  obvious.  We  are  not  disposed  to  take  it 
for  granted  that  this  irregular  development  of  mental 
power  is  the  least  useful.  Perhaps  one  of  Coleridge's 
evening  conversations  or  single  aphorisms  has  more 
deeply  excited  some  minds  to  action,  than  the  regular  per- 
formances of  a  dozen  inferior  men.  It  is  this  feeling 
which  probably  led  him  to  express,  with  such  earnest- 
ness, the  wish  that  the  "  criterion  of  a  scholar's  utility 
were  the  number  and  value  of  the  truths  he  has  circula- 
ted and  minds  he  has  awakened." 

A  distinguishing  trait  of  Coleridge's  genius  was  a  rare 
power  of  comparison.  His  metaphors  are  often  unique 
and  beautiful.  Here  also  the  poet  excels  the  philosopher. 
It  may  be  questioned  if  any  modern  writer  whose  works 
are  equally  limited,  has  illustrated  his  ideas  with  more 
originality  and  interest.  When  encountered  amid  his 
grave  disquisitions,  the  similitudes  of  Coleridge  strikingly 


COLERIDGE. 


231 


proclaim  the  poetical  cast  of  his  mind,  and  lead  us  to 
regret  that  its  energies  were  not  more  devoted  to  the  im- 
aginative department  of  literature.  At  times  he  was 
conscious  of  the  same  feeling.  "  Well  were  it  for  me 
perhaps,"  he  remarks  in  the  Biographia,  "  had  I  never 
relapsed  into  the  same  mental  disease  ;  if  I  had  continued 
to  pluck  the  flower  and  reap  the  harvest  from  the  cultiva- 
ted surface,  instead  of  delving  in  the  unwholesome  quick- 
silver mines  of  metaphysic  depths."  That  he  formed  as 
just  an  estimate  of  the  superficial  nature  of  political 
labour,  is  evident  from  the  following  allusion  to  partizan 
characters  : 

Fondly  these  attach 
A  radical  causation  to  a  few 
Poor  drudges  of  chastising  Providence, 
Who  borrow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 
From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 
Which  gave  them  birth  and  nursed  them. 

A  few  examples  taken  at  random,  will  suffice  to  show 
his  "  dim  similitudes  woven  in  moral  strains." 

"  To  set  our  nature  at  strife  with  itself  for  a  good  purpose,  im- 
plies the  same  sort  of  prudence  as  a  priest  of  Diana  would  have 
manifested,  who  should  have  proposed  to  dig  up  the  celebrated 
charcoal  foundations  of  the  mighty  temple  of  Ephesus,  in  order 
to  furnish  fuel  for  the  burnt-offerings  on  its  altars." 

"  The  reader,  who  would  follow  a  close  reasoner  to  the  summit 
of  the  absolute  principle  of  any  one  important  subject,  has  chosen 
a  chamois-hunter  for  his  guide.  He  cannot  carry  us  on  his 
shoulders;  we  must  strain  our  sinews,  as  he  has  strained  his; 
and  make  firm  footing  on  the  smooth  rock  for  ourselves,  by  the 
blood  of  toil  from  our  own  feet." 

"  In  the  case  of  libel,  the  degree  makes  the  kind,  the  circum- 
stances constitute  the  criminality  ;  and  both  degree  and  circum- 
stances, like  the  ascending  shades  of  colour,  or  the  shooting  hues 
of  a  dove's  neck,  die  away  into  each  other,  incapable  of  definition 
or  outline." 

"  Would  to  heaven  that  the  verdict  to  be  passed  on  my  labours 
depended  on  those  who  least  needed  them !    The  water-lily  in 


232 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


the  midst  of  waters  lifts  up  its  broad  leaves  and  expands  its  pe- 
tals, at  the  first  pattering  of  the  shower,  and  rejoices  in  the  rain 
with  a  quicker  sympathy  than  the  parched  shrub  in  the  sandy 
desert." 

"  Human  experience,  like  the  stern  lights  of  a  ship  at  sea,  illu- 
mines only  the  path  which  we  have  passed  over." 

"  1  have  laid  too  many  eggs  in  the  hot  sands  of  this  wilderness 
the  world,  with  ostrich  carelessness  and  ostrich  oblivion.  The 
greater  part,  indeed,  have  been  trod  under  foot,  and  are  forgotten  ; 
'  but  yet  no  small  number  have  crept  forth  into  life,  some  to  fur- 
|  nish  feathers  for  the  caps  of  others,  and  still  more  to  plume  the 
shafts  in  the  quivers  of  my  enemies." 

 On  the  driving  cloud  the  shining  bow, 

That  gracious  thing  made  up  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Mid  the  wild  rack  and  rain  that  slant  below 
Stands — 

Jls  though  the  spirits  of  all  lovely  flowers 
Inweaving  each  its  wreath  and  dewy  crown, 
And  ere  they  sunk  to  earth  in  vernal  showers, 
Had  built  a  bridge  to  tempt  the  angels  down. 
Remorse  is  as  the  heart  in  which  it  grows  : 
If  that  be  gentle,  it  drops  balmy  dews 
Of  true  repentance  ;  but  if  proud  and  gloomy, 
It  is  a  poison  tree,  that,  pierced  to  the  inmost, 
Weeps  only  tears  of  poison. 

The  more  elaborate  poetical  compositions  of  Coleridge 
display  much  talent  and  a  rare  command  of  language. 
His  dramatic  attempts,  however,  are  decidedly  inferior  in 
interest  and  power  to  many  of  his  fugitive  pieces.  Wal- 
lenstein,  indeed,  is  allowed  to  be  a  master-piece  of  trans- 
lation— and,  although  others  have  improved  upon  certain 
passages,  as  a  whole  it  is  acknowledged  to  be  an  unequal- 
led specimen  of  its  kind.  But  to  realize  the  true  ele- 
ments of  the  poet's  genius,  we  must  have  recourse  to  his 
minor  poems.  In  these,  his  genuine  sentiments  found 
genial  development.  They  are  beautiful  emblems  of  his 
personal  history,  and  admit  us  to  the  secret  chambers  of 
his  hean.    We  recognize,  as  we  ponder  them,  the  native 


COLERIDGE. 


233 


fire  of  his  muse,  "  unmixed  with  baser  matter."  Of  the 
juvenile  poems,  the  Monody  on  Chatterton  strikes  us  as 
the  most  remarkable.  It  overflows  with  youthful  sympa- 
thy, and  contains  passages  of  singular  power  for  the  effu- 
sions of  so  inexperienced  a  bard.  Take,  for  instance,  the 
following  lines,  where  an  identity  of  fate  is  suggested 
from  the  consciousness  of  error  and  disappointment : 

Poor  Chatterton  !  he  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too  late. 

Poor  Chatterton  !  farewell !  of  darkest  hues 

This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  unshapen  tomb; 

But  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 

Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom: 

For  oh  !  big  gall-drops  shook  from  Folly's  wing, 

Have  blackened  the  fair  promise  of  my  spring  ; 

And  the  stern  Fates  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 

The  last  pale  Hope  that  shivered  at  my  heart. 

Few  young  poets  of  English  origin,  have  written  more 
beautiful  amatory  poetry  than  this  : 

0  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  god  ! 
A  flower-entangled  arbour  I  would  seem 
To  shield  my  love  from  noontide's  sultry  beam : 
Or  bloom  a  myrtle,  from  whose  odorous  boughs 
My  love  might  weave  gay  garlands  for  her  brows. 
When  twilight  stole  across  the  fading  vale 
To  fan  my  love  I'd  be  the  evening  gale  ; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  swelling  vest, 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  seraph  wing  I'd  float  a  dream  by  night, 
To  soothe  my  love  with  shadows  of  delight  :- 
Or  soar  aloft  to  be  the  spangled  skies, 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes  ! 

Nor  were  religious  sentiments  unawakened : 

Fair  the  vernal  mead, 
Fair  the  high  grove,  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  stars ; 
True  impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire  ! 

14 


234 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Yet  nor  high  grove,  nor  many-coloured  mead, 

Nor  the  green  Ocean  with  his  thousand  isles, 

Nor  the  starred  azure,  nor  the  sovran  sun, 

E'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 

Imaged  the  supreme  being  uncreate, 

As  thou,  meek  Saviour  !  at  the  fearless  hour 

When  thy  insulted  anguish  winged  the  prayer 

Harped  by  archangels,  when  they  sing  of  mercy  ! 

Which  when  the  Almighty  heard  from  forth  his  throne 

Diviner  light  filled  heaven  with  ecstacy  ! 

Heaven's  hymnings  paused  :  and  hell  her  yawning  mouth 

Closed  a  brief  moment. 

It  is  delightful  to  dwell  upon  these  early  outpourings 
of  an  ardent  and  gifted  soul.  They  lay  bare  the  real 
characteristics  of  Coleridge.  Without  them  our  sense  of 
his  genius  would  be  far  more  obscure.  When  these  ju- 
venile poems  were  written  '  existence  was  all  a  feeling, 
not  yet  shaped  into  a  thought.'  Here  is  no  mysticism  or 
party  feeling,  but  the  simplicity  and  fervour  of  a  fresh 
heart,  touched  by  the  beauty  of  the  visible  world,  by  the 
sufferings  of  genius,  and  the  appeals  of  love  and  religion. 
The  natural  and  the  sincere  here  predominate  over  the 
studied  and  artificial.  Time  enlarged  the  bard's  views, 
increased  his  stores  of  knowledge,  and  matured  his  men- 
tal powers ;  but  his  genius,  as  pictured  in  his  writings, 
though  strengthened  and  fertilized,  thenceforth  loses 
much  of  its  unity.  Its  emanations  are  frequently  more 
grand  and  startling,  but  less  simple  and  direct.  There 
is  more  machinery,  and  often  a  confusion  of  appliances. 
We  feel  that  it  is  the  same  mind  in  an  advanced  state  ; — 
the  same  noble  instrument  breathing  deeper  strains,  but 
with  a  melody  more  intricate  and  sad. 

In  the  Sibylline  Leaves  we  have  depicted  a  later  stage 
of  the  poet's  life.  Language  is  now  a  more  effective  ex- 
pedient. It  follows  the  thought  with  a  clearer  echo,  it 
is  woven  with  a  firmer  hand.    The  subtle  intellect  is 


COLERIDGE  . 


235 


evidently  at  work  in  the  very  rush  of  emotion.  The  poet 
has  discovered  that  he  cannot  hope 

"  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion  and  the  life,  whose  fountains  are  within." 

A  new  sentiment,  the  most  solemn  that  visits  the  breast 
of  humanity,  is  aroused  by  this  reflective  process — the 
sentiment  of  duty.  Upon  the  sunny  landscape  of  youth 
falls  the  twilight  of  thought.  A  conviction  has  entered 
the  bosom  of  the  minstrel  that  he  is  not  free  to  wander  at 
will  to  the  sound  of  his  own  music.  His  life  cannot  be 
a  mere  revel  in  the  embrace  of  beauty.  He  too  is  a  man, 
born  to  suffer  and  to  act.  He  cannot  throw  off  the  re- 
sponsibility of  life.  He  must  sustain  relations  to  his  fel- 
lows. The  scenery  that  delights  him  assumes  a  new 
aspect.  It  appeals  not  only  to  his  love  of  nature,  but  his 
sense  of  patriotism : 

0  divine 

And  beauteous  island  !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 
And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 
I  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs, 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me  ! 

More  tender  ties  bind  the  poet-soul  to  his  native  isle — 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life — 
Yea,  in  the  very  name  of  wife. 

*  *  *  * 

Then  was  I  thrilled  and  melted,  and  most  warm 
Impressed  a  father's  kiss. 

Thus  gather  the  many-tinted  hues  of  human  destiny 
around  the  life  of  the  young  bard.  To  a  mind  of  philo- 
sophical cast,  the  transition  is  most  interesting.  It  is  the 
distinguishing  merit  of  Coleridge,  that  in  his  verse  we 
find  these  epochs  warmly  chronicled.  Most  just  is  his 
vindication  of  himself  from  the  charge  of  egotism.  To 
what  end  are  beings  peculiarly  sensitive,  and  capable  of 
rare  expression,  sent  into  the  world,  if  not  to  make  us 
feel  the  mysteries  of  our  nature,  by  faithful  delineations, 


236  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

drawn  from  their  own  consciousness  ?    It  is  the  lot,  not 

of  the  individual,  but  of  man  in  general,  to  feel  the  subli- 
mity of  the  mountain — the  loveliness  of  the  flower — the 
awe  of  devotion — and  the  ecstacy  of  love  ;  and  we  should 
bless  those  who  truly  set  forth  the  traits  and  triumphs  of 
our  nature — the  consolations  and  anguish  of  our  human 
life.  We  are  thus  assured  of  the  universality  of  Nature's 
laws — of  the  sympathy  of  all  genuine  hearts.  Some- 
thing of  a  new  dignity  invests  the  existence,  whose  com- 
mon experience  is  susceptible  of  such  portraiture.  In  the 
keen  regrets,  the  vivid  enjoyments,  the  agonizing  remorse 
and  the  glowing  aspirations  recorded  by  ihe  poet,  we  find 
the  truest  reflection  of  our  own  souls.  There  is  a  noble- 
ness in  the  lineaments  thus  displayed,  which  we  can 
scarcely  trace  in  the  bustle  and  strife  of  the  world.  Self- 
respect  is  nourished  by  such  poetry,  and  the  hope  of  im- 
mortality rekindled  at  the  inmost  shrine  of  the  heart.  Of 
recent  poets,  Coleridge  has  chiefly  added  to  such  obliga- 
tions. He  has  directed  our  gaze  to  Mont  Blanc  as  to  an 
everlasting  altar  of  praise  ;  and  kindled  a  perennial  flame 
of  devotion  amid  the  snows  of  its  cloudy  summit.  He 
has  made  the  icy  pillars  of  the  Alps  ring  with  solemn 
anthems.  The  pilgrim  to  the  Vale  of  Chamouni  shall 
not  hereafter  want  a  Hymn,  by  which  his  admiring  soul 
may  "  wreak"  itself  upon  expression." 

Rise,  0,  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills, 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven, 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky, 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun, 
Earth,  and  her  thousand  voices  praises  God. 

To  one  other  want  of  the  heart  has  the  muse  of  Cole- 
ridge given  genuine  expression.  Fashion,  selfishness, 
and  the  mercenary  spirit  of  the  age,  have  widely  and 


COLERIDGE. 


237 


deeply  profaned  the  very  name  of  Love.  To  poetry  it 
flies  as  to  an  ark  of  safety.  The  English  bard  has  set 
apart  and  consecrated  a  spot  sacred  to  its  meditation — 
1  midway  on  the  mount,'  1  beside  the  ruined  tower  and 
thither  may  we  repair  to  cool  the  eye  fevered  with  the 
glare  of  art,  by  gazing  on  the  fresh  verdure  of  nature, 
Mien 

The  moonshine  stealing  o'er  the  scene 
Has  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve, 

And  she  is  there,  our  hope,  our  joy, 
Our  own  dear  Genevieve. 


KEATS. 


A  feeling  has  gone  abroad  prejudicial  to  the  manliness 
of  Keats.  Such  an  idea  in  relation  to  any  one  who  has 
given  undoubted  proof  of  intellectual  vigour,  should  ne- 
ver be  confidently  entertained.  Strong  sense  generally 
accompanies  strong  feeling  ;  and  it  may  be  fairly  presum- 
ed that  when  a  man  of  true  force  of  character  is  charge- 
able with  great  weakness,  it  is  usually  to  be  ascribed  more 
to  physical  and  accidental  causes  than  to  any  inherent 
and  absolute  defect.  The  whole  environment  of  circum- 
stances must  be  weighed  in  the  balance  with  the  genuine 
characteristics  of  the  individual,  before  we  can  truly  pro- 
nounce on  the  case.  Keats  was  a  man  of  a  most  affluent 
imagination,  sensitive  feelings,  and  high  aims  ;  but  he 
was  born  at  a  livery  stable  ;  his  constitution  was  radical- 
ly feeble,  and  his  affections  grievously  disappointed. 
Considering  what  a  world  we  live  in,  and  the  traits  of 
our  common  nature,  this  was  a  painful  combination.  Al- 
most every  young  man  cherishes  an  idea  which  he  confi- 
dently expects  to  realize.  A  poetical  mind  unites  with 
such  hopes  a  singular  intensity  of  purpose ;  failure  is 
accordingly  the  signal  for  despair.  It  is  not  in  moral 
enterprises  as  in  trade.  When  the  hopes  of  the  heart 
are  bankrupt,  renovation  is  not  easy  ;  they  are  too  often 
all  risked  upon  one  adventure,  and  when  that  miscarries, 
iron  nerves  and  an  indomitable  will  are  required  to  stand 
the  shock.    The  cherished  aim  of  Keats  was  doubtless  to 


KEATS. 


239 


retrieve  his  social  condition  by  the  force  of  his  genius. 
There  was  nothing  presumptuous  in  such  an  anticipation. 
He  had  evinced  more  of  the  '  divine  afflatus'  than  many- 
English  poets  of  good  reputation,  and  his  powers  were  by- 
no  means  fully  ripe.  He  had  an  exuberance  of  fancy 
truly  wonderful — the  independence  to  choose  his  own 
path,  and  an  honest  ambition  to  win  the  laurel  which  he 
felt  was  within  his  grasp.  He  published  his  first  volume 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  His  political  opinions  and 
those  of  his  associates,  drew  upon  his  literary  efforts  the 
most  severe  vituperation  ;  and  when  Endymion  appeared 
in  1818,  it  was  furiously  assailed  by  the  great  critical  au- 
thority of  the  day.  GifTord  declared  his  intention  of 
attacking  it,  even  before  its  appearanee.  The  lowly  birth 
of  the  poet,  the  character  of  his  friends,  and  the  humble 
nature  of  his  early  education,  were  turned  into  arrows, 
dipped  in  gall,  to  rankle  in  his  sensitive  heart.  The 
courtesies  of  private  life  were  invaded,  and  the  grossest 
calumnies  resorted  to,  in  order  to  carry  out  the  system  of 
abuse  then  prevalent.  With  good  health  and  a  reasona- 
ble prospect  of  continued  existence,  Keats  could  have 
faced  the  storm.  He  could  have  lived  down  opprobrium, 
and  awed  a  venal  press  by  the  shadow  of  his  mature  ge- 
nius. But  feeling  that  the  seeds  of  death  were  already 
within  him,  and  having  striven  in  vain 
*  to  uprear 

Love's  standard  on  the  battlements  of  song,' 
be  no  longer  hoped  '  to  leave  his  name  upon  the  harp- 
string.'  He  felt  that  he  must  pass  away  unvindicated. 
The  criticism  to  which  his  death  is  commonly  ascribed, 
was  but  the  last  of  a  series  of  painful  experience.  It  is 
very  unjust  to  select  one,  and  that  the  least  dignified  of 
his  trials,  and  represent  him  as  thus  unworthily  vanquish- 
ed. It  was  "  in  battalions"  and  not  singly,  that  trouble 
overpowered  him.    It  was  physical  infirmity  rather  than 


240 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


morbid  feeling,  that  gave  fatal  effect  to  critical  abuse. 
The  "  article"  was  the  climax,  rather  than  the  arbiter  of 
his  fate.  Byron's  facetious  rhymes,  therefore,  pass  for 
nothing.  Keats  was  not  "  extinguished  by  an  article." 
It  is  untrue  that  he  was  "  laughed  into  Lethe  by  some 
quaint  review."  His  woes  were  only  aggravated  by  ridi- 
cule, and  his  last  days  embittered  by  the  obloquy  attempt- 
ed to  be  cast  on  his  name.  It  is  obvious,  therefore,  that 
he  was  no  lack-a-daisical  sufferer.  In  fact,  the  state  of 
his  mind  was  inferred  rather  than  known.  He  kept  his 
feelings  to  himself,  and  they  preyed  upon  him  the  more. 
He  possessed  too  much  delicacy  to  intrude  his  sorrows, 
even  upon  intimate  friends.  He  "  bore  his  faculties  so 
meekly,"  that  to  a  kindly  observer  his  silent  griefs  could 
not  but  "  challenge  pity."  There  is  a  strength  of  quiet 
endurance  as  significant  of  courage,  as  the  most  daring 
feats  of  prowess.  Keats  displayed  this  energy  of  mind 
to  a  degree  which  completely  blunts  the  edge  of  sarcasm 
as  applied  to  his  sensibility.  He  had,  says  one  of  his 
friends,  a  face  in  which  was  visible  "  an  eager  power, 
checked  and  made  patient  by  ill-health."  Lord  Byron, 
like  all  who  make  their  personal  consciousness  the 
ground  of  judgment,  often  erred  in  his  estimate  of  charac- 
ter. He  does  not  appear  to  have  made  any  allowance 
for  the  difference  of  circumstances  and  disposition  be- 
tween himself  and  Keats.  He  says  the  effect  of  the  first 
severe  criticism  upon  him,  was  "rage,  resistance  and 
redress,  not  despondency  and  despair."  Very  likely.  He 
was  then  in  high  health — had  rank  and  money  to  sustain 
him,  and  nothing  at  issue  but  literary  fame.  Keats  was 
poor,  obscurely  born,  his  health  broken,  and  his  heart 
concentered  on  an  enterprise  affecting  his  every  interest. 
His  spirit  also  was  too  gentle  to  find  relief  in  satire.  By- 
ron looked  at  his  beautiful  hand  with  pride,  as  Nature's 
sign  of  high-birth  :  Keats  gazed  with  sadness  upon  his 


KEATS. 


241 


— its  veins  swollen  by  disease  ;  he  used  to  say  it  was  the 
hand  of  a  man  of  fifty.  In  this  one  contrast,  we  have  a 
token  of  their  diversity  of  condition.  To  the  one,  poe- 
try was  a  graceful  appendage — to  the  other,  all  in  all  : 
the  one,  if  successful  with  the  muses,  could  fall  back  upon 
many  an  object  secured  by  his  social  position  and  versa- 
tile nature  ;  the  other,  if  baffled  with  his  lyre,  was  left 
no  resource  but  the  ungenial  pathway  of  lowly  toil : — 
Byron  was  a  poet  at  intervals  ;  Keats  had  wed  himself 
;'  to  things  of  light,  from  infancy."  He  lived  but  twenty^ 
four  years.  His  education,  as  far  as  formal  teaching  was 
concerned,  he  derived  chiefly  from  a  school  at  Enfield. 
At  an  early  age  he  was  apprenticed  to  a  surgeon  ;  but 
his  fine  abilities  soon  brought  him  in  contact  with  several 
leading  minds.  His  happiest  hours  appear  to  have 
been  those  dedicated  to  friendly  converse  with  congenial 
spirits,  and  strolling  along  a  pleasant  lane  between  Hamp- 
stead  and  Highgate.  This  walk  has  become  classic 
ground,  frequented  as  it  has  been  by  such  men  as  Cole- 
ridge, Lamb  and  Keats.  Although  the  latter  was  convin- 
ced that  his  disease  was  fatal  for  three  years  before  his 
death,  he  was  induced  by  the  hope  of  alleviating  the 
symptoms  and  refreshing  his  mind  with  change  of  scene, 
to  embark  for  Naples.  He  carried  with  him  a  breaking 
heart.  Assiduous  devotion  at  the  bed-side  of  a  dying 
brother,  had  wasted  his  little  remaining  strength.  There 
was  now  an  aimless  fever  in  his  life.  The  beautiful 
fragment  of  Hyperion  he  had  not  courage  to  complete, 
after  the  cold  reception  of  his  earlier  poems.  In  fact  he 
seems  to  have  gone  abroad  only  to  die.  The  luxuriant 
beauty  of  Naples,  and  the  solemn  atmosphere  of  Rome 
must  have  pressed  upon  his  senses  with  most  pathetic 
import.  No  heart  was  ever  more  alive  to  the  spell  of 
loveliness  or  the  charm  of  antiquity  ;  but  how  full  of 
u  thoughts  too  deep  for  tears,"  must  have  been  their  lan- 
guage when  hallowed  by  the  shadow  of  death ! 


242 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


A  few  years  after,  one  of  the  kings  of  literature  came 
from  the  same  northern  isle,  to  seek  renovation  in  that 
gentle  clime.  But  his  goal  was  reached.  He  had  en- 
joyed a  long  and  bright  career.  The  affectionate  hopes 
of  millions  followed  his  feeble  steps.  He  could  look  back 
upon  many  years  of  successful  achievement;  and  was 
about  to  depart,  like  the  sun  at  his  setting,  enchcled  with 
the  light  of  glory.  The  younger  heir  of  fame  came  a 
weary  pilgrim  to  the  same  scenes,  to  die  in  his  youth, 
like  a  star  that  rises  only  to  twinkle  for  an  hour,  and  dis- 
appear forever.  Keats  was  fortunate  in  a  companion. 
An  artist  who  had  known  him  long,  appreciated  his  char- 
acter, and  was  blessed  with  a  rich  fund  of  animal  spirits 
and  kindly  feeling,  "  sustained  and  soothed"  the  sufferer, 
until  he  tranquilly  expired  at  Rome,  Dec.  27th,  1S20. 
How  many  have  witnessed,  in  imagination,  the  departure 
of  the  gifted  young  exile  !  The  sweet  words  he  uttered, 
his  patience  and  gentleness  and  poetry  beamed  forth  to 
the  last.  He  whispered  his  epitaph  to  his  friend — "  My 
name  was  writ  in  water ;"  and  already  felt  the  daisies 
growing  over  him !  The  physicians  marvelled  at  his  te- 
nacity of  life,  when  the  vital  energies  were  so  exhausted, 
and  said  he  must  have  long  lived  upon  the  strength  of 
his  spirit. 

Sometimes  a  lovely  day  occurs  in  the  very  depth  of 
winter  at  Rome.  The  deep  blue  sky  and  soft  wind  are 
then  more  than  ever  alluring.  Such  a  day  I  chose  to 
visit  the  grave  of  Keats,  guided  to  its  vicinity  by  the  mas- 
sive, grey  pyramid,  called  the  monument  of  Caius  Ces- 
tus.  A  plain  white  grave-stone,  in  the  midst  of  nume- 
rous other  memorials  of  foreign  sepulture,  indicates  the 
spot.  The  turf  around  was  of  a  most  vivid  emerald — 
the  sky  above  serenely  azure — the  air  balmy,  and  the 
scene  almost  deserted.  The  sigh  of  the  breeze  through 
u  cypress,  or  the  chirrup  of  a  single  bird,  drawn  forth  by 


KEATS. 


243 


the  unwonted  warmth,  alone  broke  the  profound  quiet  of 
the  cemetery.  It  seemed  as  if  Nature  was  atoning  to 
the  departed  for  the  world's  harshness,  by  keeping  a  vigil 
of  peaceful  beauty  at  his  grave. 

To  every  poetical  mind  there  seems  to  be  a  peculiar 
nucleus  for  thought.  The  sympathies  flow  in  some  par- 
ticular direction ;  and  the  glow  and  imagery  of  song  are 
excited  in  a  certain  manner,  according  to  individual  taste 
and  character.  To  Scott,  chivalry  and  all  its  associa- 
tions, were  inspiring — to  Wordsworth,  abstract  Nature. 
Cowper  loved  to  group  his  feelings  and  fancies  around 
moral  truth;  and  Pope  to  weave  into  verse  the  phenome- 
na of  social  life.  The  poetical  sympathies  of  Keats  were 
strongly  attracted  by  Grecian  mythology.  This  was  un- 
fortunate as  regards  his  prospect  of  fame.  Neptune  and 
Venus  do  not  win  the  popular  attention  like  Tarn  O'Shan- 
ter,  Marmion,  or  Childe  Harold.  Diverse  as  are  these 
personages,  they  are  all  far  nearer  to  the  heart  of  man  ; 
they  come  more  within  the  common  view  than  the 
Pagan  deities.  The  life  of  a  great  man  of  modern 
times,  finds  far  more  readers  in  this  age  than  a  classical 
dictionary.  On  the  other  hand,  Keats  found  in  the  field 
he  selected,  a  freedom  of  range  which  his  warm  fancy 
craved.  Among  the  Grecian  gods  he  could  indulge  in 
the  most  luxuriant  invention  ;  he  could  draw  pictures  of 
beauty,  and  visions  of  bliss,  and  tales  of  passion,  accord- 
ing to  an  ideal  standard.  In  this  enchanted  ground  he 
need  not  conform  to  the  actual,  but  his  thoughts  could  be 
"  as  free  of  wing  as  Eden's  garden  bird;"  and  his  muse 
emulate  "  the  large  utterance  of  the  early  gods."  We 
have  frequent  evidence  of  his  love  of  these  themes : 

Behold  !  he  walks 
On  Heaven's  pavement ;  brotherly  he  talk3 
To  divine  powers  :  from  his  hand,  full  fain, 
Juno's  proud  birds  are  pecking  early  grain  : 


244 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


He  tries  the  nerve  of  Phoebus'  golden  bow, 
And  asketh  where  the  golden  apples  grow  : 
Upon  his  arm  he  braces  Pallas'  shield, 
And  strives  in  vain  to  unsettle  and  wield 
A  Jovian  thunderbolt.* 

]t  was  his  delight  to  see 

Phoebus  in  the  morning ; 
Or  flushed  Aurora  in  the  roseate  dawning ; 
Or  a  white  Naiad  in  a  rippling  stream  ; 
Or  a  rapt  seraph  in  a  moonlight  beam.f 

In  these  ambitious  attempts,  the  young  poet  paid  little 
attention  to  artificial  rules  of  versification.  The  lines  run 
into  one  another  with  scarcely  any  view  to  the  effect  of 
the  pause.  The  rhymes  seem  often  forced.  Fancy 
rather  than  form — sentiment  rather  than  art,  predominate. 
The  couplets  are  often  illegitimately  joined ;  but  their 
offspring,  born  "  in  the  lusty  stealth  of  nature,"  frequent- 
ly o'ertop  more  regular  aspirants  for  the  favour  of  the 
muses.  The  mould  of  his  early  creations  was  a  secon- 
dary object  with  Keats  ;  but  it  should  be  borne  in  mind 
that  good  rhymes  are  common,  but  men  of  original  poet- 
ical power,  rare.  It  is  conceded,  also,  that  an  occasional 
unauthorized  expression  must  be  added  to  the  sin  of  care- 
less versification.  Few  critics  can  be  expected  to  pass, 
unlashed,  such  words  as  "  lush,"  "  wingedly,"  "  'min- 
ish,"  "  graspable,"  "  hoveringly,"  and  the  like.  He 
seems  to  have  often  written  without  forethought  or  revi- 
sion. There  is  a  very  spontaneous  air  about  his  long 
poems.  They  flow  out  like  a  spring  set  loose,  winding 
along  in  a  vagrant  and  free  course.  This  kind  of  poeti- 
cal audacity  is  very  provoking  to  critics,  and  doubtless 
incited  them  not  a  little  in  their  endeavours  to  crush  the 
new-fledged  warbler.    Palpable  as  are  the  artistical  de- 

*  Endymion.  t  Epistle  to  Matthew. 


KEATS. 


245 


fects  of  most  of  the  poetry  of  Keats,  its  bold  and  singular 
beauties  are  equally  apparent.  And  herein  consists  the 
shame  of  these  "  invisible  infallibilities,"  as  some  one 
calls  reviewers, — that  with  the  sense  to  perceive  the 
crude  and  incorrect  structure,  they  lacked  soul  to  feel  the 
exquisite  sentiment  and  sweet  imagery  of  these  poems. 
They  should  have  remembered,  that  a  good  versifier  is 
no  uncommon  personage  ;  but  a  creative  genius  is  not 
vouchsafed  to  this  planet  every  day.  They  should  have 
acknowledged  that  study  can  reform  a  careless  style  ; 
but  that  no  such  process  can  give  birth  to  thoughts  of 
poetic  beauty.  While,  as  experienced  observers,  they 
suggest  an  improved  manner  to  the  young  bard,  they 
should  have  cordially — ay,  reverently  hailed  the  creden- 
tials Keats  proffered  of  his  high  mission,  and  blest  the 
advent  of  a  poet  soul.  A  few  glances  over  these  poems 
would  have  furnished  rich  proofs  of  their  promise,  and 
won  attention  from  their  defects.  Here  and  there,  a  lov- 
ing eye  could  certainly  have  discerned  perfect  gems, 
even  of  style,  and  perceived  a  freshness,  freedom 
and  power  of  fancy,  unequalled  in  English  verse.  But 
blind  attachment  to  an  obsolete  school  of  poetry — as  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible — political  considerations,  the 
factitious  influence  of  birth,  companionship  and  fortune, 
were  suffered  to  magnify  every  fault,  and  dwarf  all  ex- 
cellence. There  are  those  who  cannot  welcome  an  angel 
with  ruffled  wings  ! 

A  casual  survey  will  discover  felicitous  touches  of 
description,  enough  to  indicate  to  any  candid  mind,  how 
full  of  poetry  was  the  soul  of  Keats.  He  speaks  of  the 
"  patient  brilliance  of  the  moon,"  "  and  the  quaint  mossi- 
ness of  aged  roots."  Whoso  feels  not  the  force  of  such 
words,  will  look  in  vain  for  the  poetic,  either  in  life  or  liter- 
ature. Here  are  a  few  traces  of  the  footsteps  of  genius, 
taken  at  hazard,  like  wild-flowers  from  among  the  grass: 


246 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


....  Autumn  bold 
With  universal  tinge  of  sober  gold. 

....  Vesper 
Summons  all  the  downiest  clouds  together 
For  the  sun's  purple  couch. 

....  Time,  that  aged  nurse, 
Rocked  me  to  patience. 

.  .  Silence  came  heavily  again, 
Feeling  about  for  its  old  couch  of  space 
And  airy  cradle. 

....  Cold,  0  !  cold  indeed 
Were  her  fair  limbs,  and  like  a  common  weed 
The  sea-swell  took  her  hair. 

.  .  ere  the  hot  sun  count 
His  dewy  rosary  on  the  eglantine. 

Sudden  a  thought  came  like  a  full-blown  rose 
Flushing  his  brow,  and  in  his -pained  heart 
Made  purple  riot. 

A  lively  prelude,  fashioning  the  way 
In  which  the  voice  should  wander. 

.  .     .  the  silver  flow 
Of  Hero's  tears,  the  swoon  of  Imogen, 
Fair  Pastorella  in  the  bandit's  den, 
Are  things  to  brood  on  with  more  ardency 
Than  the  death-day  of  empires. 

....  He  ne'er  is  crowned 
With  immortality,  who  fears  to  follow 
Where  airy  voices  lead. 

....  Now  indeed 
His  senses  had  swooned  off :  he  did  not  heed 
The  sudden  silence,  or  the  whispers  low, 
Or  the  old  eyes  dissolving  at  his  woe, 
Or  anxious  calls,  or  close  of  trembling  palms, 
Or  maiden's  sigh,  that  grief  itself  embalms. 


KEATS. 


247 


Such  turns  of  thought  and  sweet  fancies,  and  they 
abound  in  the  poetry  of  Keats,  would  suggest  to  any 
tasteful  and  unprejudiced  mind,  the  warmest  hopes  of 
poetical  success.  They  occur,  indeed,  in  the  midst  of 
blemishes,  and  the  way  to  them  is  sometimes  fatiguing ; 
but  all  the  serious  deficiences  of  the  poet  flow  from  the 
exuberance,  rather  than  the  paucity  of  his  gifts.  A 
charge  of  effeminacy  has  sometimes  been  preferred 
against  his  warmer  pictures  and  the  tone  of  his  senti- 
ment. This  is  to  be  ascribed,  in  a  great  measure,  to  his 
want  of  bodily  energy.  A  very  sensitive  and  earnest 
heart  in  a  feeble  body,  is  apt  to  give  birth,  in  fanciful 
creations,  to  an  over-softness  of  portraiture.  There  is 
sometimes  too  much  of  the  languor  of  reacting  passion. 
Endymion  and  other  of  his  heroes,  faint  and  sleep,  and 
almost  "  die,  like  Raphael,  in  the  arms  of  love."  It  is 
said  that  Keats  acknowledged,  with  regret,  having  occa- 
sionally written  when  his  mind  was  not  sufficiently 
braced  to  its  task,  and  when  a  luxuriant  imagination  was 
suffered  to  expend  itself,  unsustained  by  due  judgment. 
Such  lapses  were,  however,  but  occasional  and  tempor- 
ary. The  poet's  organization  from  its  very  delicacy, 
seems  to  have  been  peculiarly  favourable  to  luxurious  im- 
pressions. We  can  easily  imagine  such  a  man  basking 
with  delight  in  the  fragrant  sunshine  of  spring,  or  wrapt 
in  quiet  delight  over  a  Grecian  vase  or  a  beautiful  coun- 
tenance. He  has  one  or  two  festal  descriptions  which 
are  quite  delicious : 

....  recline 
Upon  these  living  flowers.    Here  is  wine 
Alive  with  sparkles — never,  I  aver, 
Since  Ariadne  was  a  vintager, 
So  cool  a  purple  :  taste  these  juicy  pears, 
Sent  me  by  sad  Vertumnus,  when  his  fears 
Were  high  about  Pomona  :  here  is  cream 
Deepening  to  richness  from  a  snowy  gleam  ; 


248 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Sweeter  than  that  nurse  Almathea  skimm'd 
For  the  boy  Jupiter  :  and  here  undimmed 
By  any  touch,  a  bunch  of  blooming  plums 
Ready  to  melt  between  an  infant's  gums  : 
And  here  is  manna  pick'd  from  Syrian  trees 
In  starlight  by  the  three  Hesperides.* 

And  still  she  slept  an  azure-lidded  sleep, 
In  blanched  linen,  smooth  and  lavender'd, 
While  he  from  forth  the  closet  brought  a  heap 
Of  candied  apple,  quince,  and  plum  and  gourd; 
With  jellies  sweeter  than  the  creamy  curd, 
And  lucid  syrops  tinct  with  cinnamon  ; 
Manna  and  dates,  in  argosy  transferr'd 
From  Fez ;  and  spiced  dainties,  every  one, 
From  silken  Sarmacand  to  cedar'd  Lebanon.f 

Perhaps,  there  is  more  cant  than  strict  truth,  in  what 
is  often  said  about  the  early  promise  of  a  poet  who  dies 
young.  Perhaps  we  sometimes  mistake  the  fruit  for  the 
blossom.  What  though  the  minstrel  has  struck  his  harp 
but  for  an  hour  ?  Perchance  that  brief  space  has  called 
forth  its  deepest  harmony.  What  though  the  early- 
called  has  not  written  an  epic  or  a  tragedy  ?  If  we  look 
thoughtfully  at  his  lyric  or  sonnet,  we  shall  discover,  it 
may  be,  the  essence  of  his  genius  there  preserved.  What 
if  he  died  young  ?  There  is  a  poetry  that  cannot  survive 
youth.  We  are  ever  lamenting  that  an  admired  bard 
does  not  undertake  a  great  work,  when  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  such  an  office  is  not  adapted  to  his  powers. 
Thanatopsis  is  as  precious  as  if  it  formed  part  of  some 
long  poem,  which  few  would  read.  If  it  is  objected  that 
the  poetical  efforts  of  our  day  are  fragmentary,  let  it  be 
remembered  that  our  times,  our  reading,  and  our  very 
life,  partake  of  the  same  character.  It  is  not  the  amount 
nor  the  form,  but  the  intrinsic  excellence  of  poetic  crea- 
tions, which  is  our  highest  concern.  Some  of  the  most 
*  Endymion.  f  Eve  of  St.  Agnea. 


KEATS. 


249 


living  and  true  verses  in  our  language,  have  been  written 
in  youth.  It  is  the  divine  peculiarity  of  the  art  that  it 
demands  not,  but  rather  repudiates  the  lessons  of  life  that 
prudence  extols.  The  young  poet  sometimes  executes 
what  the  old  philosopher  cannot  appreciate.  In  the  fresh- 
ness of  the  soul  are  often  taken  its  noblest  flights.  The 
dreams  of  youth  are  sometimes  the  most  truly  glorious 
efforts  of  the  human  mind.  The  poetry  of  Keats  is  not 
all  a  "  feverish  attempt ;"  it  is  often  a  mature  result. 
He  has  at  least  left  one  poem,  which,  for  invention,  struc- 
ture, imagery,  and  all  the  elements  of  the  art,  is  as  fault- 
less and  as  rare  a  gem  as  can  be  found  in  English  litera- 
ture. Judged  by  its  own  law,  it  is  a  production  of  itself 
sufficient  to  stamp  its  author  with  the  name  of  a  poet. 
If  it  does  not  live,  it  will  be  because  taste  and  the  love  of 
the  beautiful  have  died.  The  "  Eve  of  St.  Agnes  "  is  a 
delightful  and  original  performance.  What  an  idea  of 
cold  the  first  stanza  conveys  : 

St.  Agnes'  Eve — Ah,  bitter  chill  it  was  ! 
The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 
The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 
And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold  : 
Numb  were  the  Headman's  fingers,  while  he  told 
His  rosary,  and  while  his  frosted  breath, 
Like  pious  incense  from  a  censer  old, 
Seem'd  taking  flight  for  heaven,  without  a  death, 
Past  the  sweet  Virgin's  picture,  while  his  prayer  he  saith. 

This  description  of  moonlight  streaming  through  a 
stained  glass-window,  is  acknowledged  to  be  unrivalled  : 

Full  on  the  casement  shone  the  wintry  moon, 
And  threw  warm  gules  on  Madeline's  fair  breast, 
As  down  she  knelt  for  heaven's  grace  and  boon  : 
Rose-bloom  fell  on  her  hands,  together  prest, 
And  on  her  silver  cross  soft  amethyst, 
And  on  her  hair  a  glory,  like  a  saint : 
She  seem'd  a  splendid  angel,  newly  drest, 
Save  wings,  for  heaven. 


250 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


What  poet  ever  described  a  maiden  unrobing  in  terms 
of  such  delicate  yet  graphic  beauty  as  these  ? 

Anon  her  heart  revives  :  her  vespers  done, 
Of  all  its  wreathed  pearls  her  hair  she  frees ; 
Unclasps  her  warmed  jewels  one  by  one  ; 
Loosens  her  fragrant  boddice  ;  by  degrees 
Her  rich  attire  creeps  rustling  to  her  knees  : 
Half-hidden,  like  a  mermaid  in  sea-weed, 
Pensive  awhile  she  dreams  awake,  &c. 

Nor  is  this  all.  The  poet  follows  the  fair  creature  to 
her  couch,  and  describes  her  soul  in  sleep,  as 

Blissfully  haven'd  both  from  joy  and  pain  ; 
Clasp'd  like  a  missal  where  swart  Paynims  pray  ; 
Blinded  alike  from  sunshine  and  from  rain, 
As  though  a  rose  should  shut,  and  be  a  bud  again. 

With  this  last  exquisite  metaphor,  I  take  leave  of 
Keats.  His  genius  was  a  flower  of  uncommon  richness  ; 
and,  although  he  meekly  laments  that  it  had  "  no  depth 
to  strike  in,"  its  bloom  and  perfume  will  never  cease  to 
charm — for  he  has  truly  said,  that 

A  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  forever. 


BARRY  CORNWALL. 


When  the  smiles  of  the  muse  brighten  the  intervals  of 
a  professional  life,  when  she  scatters  flowers  along  the 
path  of  toilsome  duty,  and  proffers  a  refreshing  cup  to  the 
wayfarer,  how  pleasant  and  cheering  is  her  aspect !  Then 
we  forget  the  annals  of  privation  and  despondency  with 
which  the  idea  of  a  poet  is  too  often  associated.  We 
bless  the  art  that  keeps  alive,  in  the  midst  of  worldly  in- 
fluences, the  original  beauty  of  the  soul.  We  hail  as  di- 
vine the  inspiration  that,  from  time  to  time,  woos  the 
busy  denizen  of  a  crowded  metropolis  to  the  altar  of  a 
sweet  and  high  communion.  Thus  the  ideal  redeems 
the  actual.  Thus  the  mind  casts  off  its  work-day  vest- 
ments, and  is  arrayed  anew  in  the  white  robe  of  child- 
hood :  and  the  heart  is  freed  from  the  harsh  fetters  of 
care  and  custom,  to  grow  brave  and  fresh  again  in  the 
holy  air  of  song.  Of  the  many  aspects  which  the  poetic 
life  exhibits,  there  is  none  more  benign  than  this ;  and 
perhaps  in  no  country  is  it  more  frequently  presented 
than  our  own.  Some  of  the  noblest  effusions,  which  we 
read  with  a  glow  of  pride  at  the  thought  of  their  Ameri- 
can origin,  sprung  earnestly  from  musings  that  intervals 
of  leisure  afforded.  Like  wild  flowers  that  shed  a  deli- 
cate odour  from  the  interstices  of  a  rocky  cliff,  they  come 
forth  in  the  holiday  moments  of  a  toilsome  life.  And  for 
this  very  cause  are  they  often  more  vigorous  and  lovely. 
It  is  erroneous  to  commiserate  too  strongly  the  ungenial 


252 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


existence  to  which  many  poets  are  doomed.  Perhaps 
there  are  no  warmer  lovers  of  the  muse  than  those  who 
are  only  permitted  occasionally  to  gain  her  favours.  The 
shrine  is  more  reverently  approached  hy  the  pilgrim  from 
afar  than  the  familiar  worshipper.  Poetry  is  often  more 
beloved  by  one  whose  daily  vocation  is  amid  the  bustle 
of  the  world.  We  read  of  a  fountain  in  Arabia  upon 
whose  basin  is  inscribed  "  drink  and  away  ;"  but  how 
delicious  is  that  hasty  draught,  and  how  long  and  brightly 
the  thought  of  its  transient  refreshment  dwells  in  the 
memory  !  Contrast  is  a  great  element  of  mental  activity. 
The  mind  of  the  scholar  often  becomes  dull  and  morbid 
from  the  very  monotony  of  his  impressions ;  while  the 
man  of  ideal  spirit,  whose  lot  is  cast  amid  stern  realities, 
turns  with  a  passionate  interest  and  the  keenest  relish  to 
intellectual  pastime  and  poetic  freedom.  His  productions 
often  have  a  glow  and  life  which  men  of  ampler  oppor- 
tunities vainly  strive  to  attain ;  and  the  spirit  of  love  in 
which  he  labours  makes  bright  and  moving  the  graces  of 
his  song.    Thus,  although  Mr.  Procter  tells  us  that 

 the  spirit  languishes  and  lies 

At  mercy  of  life's  dull  realities  ; 

Yet  again  he  exclaims — 

Oh  *  never  shall  thy  name,  sweet  Poesy, 
Be  flung  away  or  trampled  by  the  crowd, 
As  a  thing  of  little  worth,  while  I  aloud 
May  (with  a  feeble  voice  indeed,)  proclaim 
The  sanctity,  the  beauty  of  thy  name. 
Thy  grateful  servant  am  I,  for  thy  power 
Has  solaced  me  through  many  a  wretched  hour  ; 
In  sickness,  ay,  when  frame  and  spirit  sank, 
I  turned  me  to  thy  crystal  cup  and  drank 
Intoxicating  draughts 

And  again : 

 although  the  muse  and  I  have  parted, 

She  to  her  airy  height  and  I  to  toil, 


BARRY  CORNWALL. 


253 


Not  discontent,  nor  wroth,  nor  gloomy-hearted, 
Because  I  now  must  till  a  rugged  soil. 

With  learned  Milton,  Steele,  and  Shakspere  sage 
I  commune  when  the  labouring  day  is  over, 
Filled  with  a  deep  delight,  like  some  true  lover 
Whom  frowning  fate  may  not  entirely  sever 
From  her  whose  love,  perhaps,  is  lost  forever. 

Procter  was  at  Harrow,  with  Byron,  and  while  his  no- 
ble classmate  was  enjoying  the  leisure  that  fortune  se- 
cures, gave  his  youthful  hours  to  the  dry  tasks  of  a  con- 
veyancer. At  the  town  of  Calne,  in  Wiltshire,  where  he 
was  placed  in  the  office  of  a  solicitor,  his  social  advan- 
tages were  great,  for  among  the  residents  were  Crabbe, 
Moore  and  Bowles.  The  early  diversity  in  the  circum- 
stances of  Byron  and  Procter  marked  their  subsequent 
career.  Of  the  noble  poet  about  as  much  is  known  as  it 
is  possible  to  communicate.  The  most  minute  details  of 
his  life  have  become  public  property.  His  path  has  been 
traced  in  all  its  windings,  the  particulars  of  his  daily  con- 
duct "  set  in  a  note-book,"  and  his  most  casual  talk  chron- 
icled. Within  a  very  few  years,  a  play  was  duly  repre- 
sented in  the  north  of  Iialy,  entitled  "  Lord  Byron  at 
Venice,"  in  which  fact  and  fiction  were  ludicrously 
blended.  If  Procter  has  no  claim  to  such  genius  as  his 
juvenile  companion — if,  as  he  says, 

At  Harrow,  where,  as  here  he  has  a  name, 
I — I 'm  not  even  on  the  list  of  fame; 

There  remains  to  the  humbler  bard  rich  consolation  in 
the  thought  of  having  escaped  that  microscopic  inspec- 
tion and  universal  comment  which  marred  the  peace,  and 
profaned  the  reputation  of  Byron.  Even  when  the  young 
solicitor  chose  to  emerge  from  obscurity,  and  present  hi§ 
meek  appeal  for  a  place'  in  the  English  Parnassus,  he 
came  before  the  public  under  the  assumed  name  of  Barry 
Cornwall.  This  title  has  now  become  endeared  to  the 
15 


254  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

lovers  of  poetry,  and  is  associated  with  charming  graces 
of  diction  and  overflowings  of  sentiment  that  make  its 
very  mention  like  the  tone  of  a  favourite  instrument.  It 
is  easily  gathered  from  the  writings  of  Procter  that  his 
life,  devoted  as  it  mainly  has  been  to  professional  labour, 
boasts  a  tasteful  spirit ; — that  genius  has  redeemed  and  hal- 
lowed it,  and  that  music,  books,  and  flowers,  the  love  of 
woman,  the  presence  of  childhood,  the  companionship  of 
the  good  and  the  gifted,  and  fond  dalliance  with  the 
muses,  have  kept  fresh  the  dreams  of  youth,  and  bright- 
ened the  stream  of  daily  thought  with  the  starlight  of 
poetry. 

The  better  moments  of  this  man,  as  revealed  in  his 
writings,  bespeak  him  of  a  gentle  nature  and  a  modest 
bearing.  Ill  health  and  a  meditative  disposition  give  a 
pleasing  melancholy  to  many  of  his  productions,  but  it  is 
mingled  with  a  quiet  enthusiasm  and  native  tenderness 
that  charm  without  exciting.  His  most  original  efforts 
are  the  Dramatic  Scenes.  In  certain  points  of  style, 
these  are  modelled  upon  the  old  English  dramas ;  but 
they  abound  with  a  winning  simplicity  and  graceful  sen- 
timent evidently  born  in  the  poet's  mind.  There  is 
nothing  stilted  or  strained  in  their  flow.  Like  clear 
streams  winding  beneath  odorous  branches,  amid  flowery 
banks,  in  the  soft  moonbeams  or  cheerful  sunshine,  they 
steal  pleasantly  onward.  They  enlist  the  reader's  sym- 
pathy by  a  kind  of  delicate  truthfulness,  and  lead  him,  as 
they  did  the  public  at  their  first  appearance,  cordially  to 
hail  the  author  as  a  genuine  poet.  "  Mirandola  "  is  a 
tragedy  which  combines  not  a  few  of  the  merits  of  the 
"  Dramatic  Scenes,"  and  the  dialogue  is  throughout  in- 
teresting. "  Marcian  Colonna "  contains  passages  of 
peculiar  power,  and  describes  some  of  the  most  subtle  of 
human  feelings  with  rare  skill.  The  rhyme  is,  perhaps, 
too  unstudied,  and  the  metre  and  manner  free  even  to 


BARRY  CORNWALL. 


255 


carelessness,  but  there  are  many  felicitous  turns  of 
thought  and  expression  to  balance  such  defects.  "  The 
Flood  of  Thessaly  "  is  an  uncommon  blank  verse  poem. 
It  is  well  sustained,  and  exhibits  sometimes  a  Miltonic 
command  of  language.  Beside  these  and  many  other 
elaborate  poems,  Barry  Cornwall  has  written  a  volume  of 
songs,  many  of  which  have  become  favourites  from  their 
feeling  tone  and  tasteful  simplicity. 

A  peculiar  attraction  in  the  poetry  of  this  author,  is  a 
certain  spontaneous  manner  which  gives  the  idea  of  sin- 
cerity. His  best  efforts  seem  unpremeditated.  They  be- 
gin as  if  he  knew  not  how  they  would  end.  He  appears 
to  write  as  the  bee  stores  its  honey,  from  an  instinctive 
principle.  There  is  an  apparent  absence  of  art,  a  tone  of 
quiet  inspiration  analogous  to  that  of  an  improvisatore. 
Some  beautiful  object,  some  touching  narrative  or  moving 
experience  captivates  his  mind,  and,  as  if  impelled  by  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  moment,  he  puts  it  into  rhyme,  pausing 
as  he  goes  along,  to  indulge  in  a  sympathizing  reverie,  or 
turn  aside  with  an  ardent  apostrophe.  Expression  would 
appear  easy  to  Barry  Cornwall.  Few  traces  of  retention 
of  thought  and  dearth  of  language  are  discoverable. 
This  delightful  freedom,  this  apparent  unconsciousness  of 
critical  barriers  and  rules  of  diction,  give  a  flowing  grace 
and  a  captivating  ease  to  verse  that  to  many  readers  is  an 
essential  charm.  It  is  akin  to  the  pleasure  of  hearing  a 
singer  who  appears  to  warble  like  a  bird,  without  effort. 
But  the  facility  is  dangerous.  It  leads  to  haste,  careless- 
ness, want  of  finish,  and  repetition  of  ideas.  The  poet's 
gold  is  often  beaten  out  until  it  becomes  thin  and  weak ; 
the  frame  is  too  loose  to  hold  the  picture  ,*  the  beautiful 
image  loses  its  fine  outline,  and  the  deep  sentiment  its 
force,  for  want  of  concentration  and  delicate  care.  And 
such  are  the  blemishes  in  the  poetry  of  Procter.  Yet 
certain  portions  of  his  poems  are  wrought  with  exquisite 


256 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


skill,  and  display  a  verbal  as  well- as  an  intrinsic  beauty, 
like  the  dainty  phrases  which  writers  of  taste  cull  from 
the  old  dramatists. 

Here  are  some  beautiful  thoughts  sweetly  uttered  : 
....  How  fine 

And  marvellous  the  subtle  intellect  is, 

Beauty's  creator  !  it  adorns  the  body, 

And  lights  it  like  a  star.    It  shines  forever, 

And,  like,  a  watch-tower  to  the  infidel, 

Shows  there's  a  land  to  come. 

.  .  .  .The  mind  is  full 
Or  curious  changes  that  perplex  itself, 
Just  like  the  visible  world  ;  and  the  heart  ebbs 
Like  the  great  sea,  first  flows  and  then  retires  : 
And  on  the  passions  doth  the  spirit  ride, 
Through  sunshine  and  in  rain,  from  good  to  ill, 
Then  to  deep  vice,  and  so  on  back  to  virtue  ; 
Till  in  the  grave,  that  universal  calm, 
We  sleep  the  sleep  eternal. 

In  budding,  happiness  is  likest  wo  : 

Great  thought  is  pain  until  the  strengthened  mind 

Can  lift  it  into  light  :  the  soul  is  blind 

Until  the  suns  of  years  have  cleared  away 

The  film  that  hangeth  round  its  wedded  clay. 

Half  the  ills  we  hoard  within  our  hearts, 

Are  ills  because  we  hoard  them. 

As  specimens  of  fine  imagery,  take  the  following: 
A  month  ago  I  was  happy !    No  ; 
Not  happy,  yet  encircled  by  deep  joy, 
Which,  though  'twas  all  around,  I  could  not  touch 
But  it  was  ever  thus  with  Happiness  : 
It  is  the  gay  to-morrow  of  the  mind 
That  never  comes. 

....  No  matter. 
I'll  take  my  way  alone,  and  burn  away — 
Evil  or  good  I  care  not,  so  I  spread 
Tremendous  desolation  on  my  road  : 
Til  he  remembered  as  huge  meteors  are, 
By  the  dismay  they  scatter. 


BARRY  CORNWALL. 


257 


I  seem  to  go 
Calmly,  yet  with  a  melancholy  step, 
Onward,  and  onward.    Is  there  not  a  tale 
Of  some  man  (an  Arabian  as  I  think) 
Who  sailed  upon  the  wide  sea  many  days, 
Tossing  about,  the  sport  of  winds  and  waters, 
Until  he  saw  an  isle  toward  which  his  ship 
Suddenly  turned  ?  there  is  :  and  he  was  drawn, 
As  by  a  magnet  on,  slowly,  until 
The  vessel  neared  the  isle  ;  and  then  it  flew 
Quick  as  a  shooting  star,  and  dashed  itself 
To  pieces.    Methinks  I  am  that  man. 

She  came  amidst  the  lovely  and  the  proud, 
Peerless  ;  and  when  she  moved  the  gallant  crowd 
Divided,  as  the  obsequious  vapors  light 
Divide  to  let  the  queen  moon  pass  by  night. 

....  Hail 

Shot  shattering  down,  and  thunders  roared  aloud, 
And  the  wild  lightning  from  his  dripping  shroud 
Unbound  his  arrowy  pinions  blue  and  pale, 
And  darted  through  the  heavens. 

Sentiment  is  the  characteristic  of  Barry  Cornwall. 
He  certainly  has  written  some  descriptive  fragments  of 
striking  beauty,  but  his  pictures  of  scenery  possess  no 
great  originality.  They  remind  us  of  other  poets. 
Their  traits  are  of  a  general  kind,  and  do  not  often  con- 
stitute the  chief  attraction  of  the  poem.  It  is  in  unfold- 
ing a  sentiment,  in  giving  expression  to  feeling,  that  we 
chiefly  recognize  the  individuality  of  this  minstrel. 
Whatever  the  reader  may  think  of  his  eye  for  nature  or 
the  scope  of  his  fancy,  he  cannot  fail  to  realize  his  sen- 
sibility and  tenderness.  He  evidently  delights  in  por- 
traying the  workings  of  the  heart.  Without  the  passion 
of  Byron,  the  directness  of  Burns,  or  the  reflective  power 
of  Wordsworth,  Barry  Cornwall  possesses  a  delicacy  and 
refined  earnestness  of  soul  that  enables  him  to  speak  of 


258  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

love  with  a  rare  and  touching  grace.    Hence  his  poems 
are  chiefly  based  upon  tales  of  "  the  sweet  south."  He 
has  sought  in  warm  climes  and  among  an  imaginative 
race  the  materials  of  his  song.    There  is  no  modern 
English  poet  who  surpasses  our  author  in  delineating  the 
tender  passion.    His  women  are  like  those  of  Shakspere, 
the  very  creatures  of  affection.    They  live  and  move 
only  in  an  atmosphere  of  sentiment.     Scattered  through 
his  works  we  have  the  most  charming  delineations  of 
human  feeling  as  modified  by  mental  refinement  and  a 
fanciful  spirit.    There  is  a  kind  of  staple  imagery  for 
love-scenes  that  is  easily  appropriated.    A  very  respecta- 
ble tone  of  devotion  can  be  invented  without  difficulty; 
but  the  poetry  of  affection  that  moves,  must  be  sincere.  It 
must  spring  from  a  nature  capable  of  deep  and  romantic 
feeling.    Its  hues  must  be  caught  from  the  rosy  flame  it 
would  depict ;  and  its  tenderness  flow  from  the  fountains 
of  emotion  in  the  heart  of  the  bard.    Thus  is  it  with 
much  of  the  poetry  of  Barry  Cornwall,  as  a  few  con- 
cluding extracts  will  illustrate  : 

I  thought  thou  wast  my  better  angel,  doomed 

To  guide  me  through  this  solitary  life 

To  some  far-off  immortal  place, 

Where  spirits  of  good  assemble  to  keep  watch, 

Till  the  foundations  of  the  Earth  shall  fail. 

I  loved  thee  as  became  mortality 

Glancing  at  heaven. 

....  I  have  quaffed 
Life  from  the  lips  of  beauty,  and  shall  I 
Who 've  banqueted  like  a  god,  be  now  content 
With  meagre  fare,  or  trust  to  mortal  drugs, 
And  run  a  common  idler  through  the  world, 
With  not  a  heart  to  own  me  ? 

Oh  !  thou  bright  Heaven,  if  thou  art  calling  now 
Thy  brighter  angels  to  thy  bosom-rest, 
For  lo  !  the  brightest  of  thy  host  in  gone — 


BARRY  CORNWALL. 


259 


Departed — and  the  earth  is  dark  below. 
From  land  to  land  I  '11  roam,  in  all  a  stranger, 
And  as  the  body  gains  a  braver  look 
By  stal  ing  in  the  face  of  many  winds. 
So  from  the  sad  aspects  of  different  things 
My  soul  shall  pluck  a  courage  and  bear  up 
Against  the  past. 

.  .  .  My  love,  my  love  ! 
How  proudly  will  we  pass  our  lives  together; 
And  wander  heart-linked  through  the  busy  world. 
Like  birds  in  Eastern  story. 

Give  me  an  intellectual,  nobler  life  ; 
Not  fighting  like  the  herded  elephants,  which, 
Beckoned  by  some  fierce  slave,  go  forth  to  war, 
And  trample  in  the  dust  their  fellow-brute. 
But  let  me  live  amongst  high  thoughts  and  smiles 
As  beautiful  as  love ;  with  grasping  hands, 
And  a  heart  that  flutters  with  diviner  life, 
Where'er  my  step  is  heard. 

My  own  sweet  love  !  oh  !  my  dear,  peerless  wife  ! 
By  the  blue  sky  and  all  its  crowding  stars, 
I  love  you  better — oh  !  far  better  than 
Woman  was  ever  loved.    There's  not  an  hour 
Of  day  or  dreaming  night  but  I  am  with  thee  : 
There's  not  a  wind  but  whispers  of  thy  name, 
And  not  a  flower  that  sleeps  beneath  the  moon 
But  in  its  hues  or  fragrance  tells  a  tale 
Of  thee,  my  love,  to  thy  Mirandola. 

....  No  voice  of  parent  spoke 
Ungentle  words,  which  now  too  often  mar 
Life's  first  fair  passion  :  then  no  gods  of  gold 
Usurping  swayed  with  bitter  tyranny 
That  sad  domain,  the  heart.    Love's  rule  was  free, 
(Ranging  through  boundless  air,  and  happy  heaven 
And  earth,)  when  Pyrrha  wed  the  Titan's  son. 


....  there  she  pined, 
Pale  as  a  prophetess  whose  labouring  mind 


260 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Gives  out  its  knowledge ;  but  her  upraised  eyes 
Shone  with  the  languid  light  of  one  who  loves  or  dies. 

Then  Love  came — Love  !  How  like  a  star  it  streamed 

In  infancy  upon  me,  till  I  dreamed, 

And 't  was  as  pure  and  almost  cold  a  light, 

And  led  me  to  the  sense  of  such  delight 

As  children  know  not ;  so  at  last  I  grew 

Enamour'd  of  beauty  and  soft  pain, 
And  felt  mysterious  pleasure  wander  through 

My  heart,  and  animate  my  childish  brain. 

He  loved :  Oh  how  he  loved  !  his  heart  was  full 

Of  that  immortal  passion,  which  alone 
Holds  through  the  wide  world  its  eternal  rule 

Supreme,  and  with  its  deep,  seducing  tone, 
Winneth  the  wise,  the  young,  the  beautiful, 

The  brave,  and  all  to  bow  before  its  throne  ; 
The  sun  and  soul  of  life,  the  end,  the  gain, 
The  rich  requital  of  an  age  of  pain. 

O,  melancholy  Love  !  amid  thy  fears, 

Thy  darkness,  thy  despair,  there  runs  a  vein 

Of  pleasure,  like  a  smile  'midst  many  tears — 
The  pride  of  sorrow  that  will  not  complain — 

The  exultation  that  in  after  years 

The  loved  one  will  discover — and  in  vain, 

How  much  the  heart  silently  in  its  cell 

Did  suffer  till  it  bi  oke,  yet  nothing  tell. 

Else — wherefore  else  doth  lovely  woman  keep 
Lock'd  in  her  heart  of  hearts,  from  every  gaze 

Hidden,  her  struggling  passion — wherefore  weep 
In  grief  that  never  while  it  flows  allays 

Those  tumults  in  the  bosom  buried  deep, 

And  robs  her  bright  eyes  of  their  natural  rays. 

Creation's  sweetest  riddle  !  yet  remain 

Just  as  thou  art — man's  only  worthy  gain. 

Oh  power  of  love,  so  fearful  and  so  fair — 
Life  of  our  life  on  earth,  yet  kin  to  care — 
Oh  !  thou  day-dreaming  spirit,  who  dost  look 
Upon  the  future  as  the  charmed  book 
Of  Fate,  were  opened  to  thine  eyes  alone — 


T3ARRY  CORNWALL. 


Thou  who  dost  cull  from  moments  stolen  and  gone 

Into  eternity,  memorial  things, 

To  deck  the  days  to  come — thy  fevellings 

Were  glorious  and  beyond  all  others.  Thou 

Didst  banquet  upon  beauty  once ;  and  now 

The  ambrosial  feast  is  ended  !    Let  it  be 

Enough  to  say,  "  it  was."    Oh  !  upon  me 

From  thy  o'ershadowing  wings  ethereal 

Shake  odorous  airs,  so  may  my  senses  all 

Be  spell-bound  to  thy  service,  beautiful  power, 

And  on  the  breath  of  every  coming  hour 

Send  me  faint  tidings  of  the  things  that  were. 

Quick  are  fond  women's  sights  and  clear  their  powers, 
They  live  in  moments  years,  an  age  in  hours  ; 
Through  every  movement  of  the  heart  they  run 
In  a  brief  period  with  a  courser's  speed, 
And  mark,  decide,  reject ;  but  if  indeed 
They  smile  on  us — oh  !  as  the  eternal  sun 
Forms  and  illuminates  all  to  which  this  earth, 
Impregnate  by  his  glance,  has  given  birth, 
Even  so  the  smile  of  woman  stamps  our  fates, 
And  consecrates  the  love  it  first  creates  f 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


We  have  heard  much  of  late  regarding  the  rights  and 
sphere  of  woman.  The  topic  has  become  trite.  One 
branch  of  the  discussion,  however,  is  worthy  of  careful 
notice — the  true  theory  of  cultivated  and  liberal  men  on 
the  subject.  This  has  been  greatly  misunderstood.  The 
idea  has  been  often  suggested  that  man  is  jealous  of  his 
alleged  intellectual  superiority,  while  little  has  been  ad- 
vanced in  illustration  of  his  genuine  reverence  for  female 
character.  Because  the  other  sex  cannot  always  find 
erudition  so  attractive  as  grace  in  woman,  and  strong 
mental  traits  so  captivating  as  a  beautiful  disposition,  it 
is  absurdly  argued  that  mind  and  learning  are  only 
honoured  in  masculine  attire.  The  truth  is,  men  of  feel- 
ing instinctively  recognize  something  higher  than  intel- 
lect. They  feel  that  a  noble  and  true  soul  is  greater  and 
more  delightful  than  mere  reason,  however  powerful; 
and  they  know  that  to  this,  extensive  knowledge  and  ac- 
tive logical  powers  are  not  essential.  It  is  not  the  attain- 
ments, or  the  literary  talent,  that  they  would  have  women 
abjure.  They  only  pray  that  through  and  above  these 
may  appear  the  woman.  They  desire  that  the  harmony 
of  Nature  may  not  be  disturbed  ;  that  the  essential  founda- 
tions of  love  may  not  be  invaded  ;  that  the  sensibility, 
delicacy  and  quiet  enthusiasm  of  the  female  heart  may 
continue  to  awaken  in  man  the  t  nder  reverence,  which 
is  one  of  the  most  elevating  of  his  sentiments. 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


263 


Portia  is  highly  intellectual ;  but  even  while  arrayed 
in  male  costume  and  enacting  the  public  advocate,  the 
essential  and  captivating  characteristics  of  her  true  sex 
inspire  her  mien  and  language.  Vittoria  Colonna  was 
one  of  the  most  gifted  spirits  of  her  age — the  favourite 
companion  of  Michael  Angelo,  but  her  life  and  works 
were  but  the  eloquent  development  of  exalted  woman- 
hood. Madame  Roland  displayed  a  strength  of  charac- 
ter singularly  heroic,  but  her  brave  dignity  was  perfectly 
feminine.  Isabella  of  Spain  gave  evidence  of  a  mind 
remarkably  comprehensive,  and  a  rare  degree  of  judg- 
ment; yet  in  perusing  her  history,  we  are  never  beguiled 
from  the  feeling  of  her  queenly  character.  There  is  an 
essential  quality  of  sex,  to  be  felt  rather  than  described, 
and  it  is  when  this  is  marred,  that  a  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment is  the  consequence.  It  is  as  if  we  should  find  vio- 
lets growing  on  a  tall  tree.  The  triumphs  of  mind  al- 
ways command  respect,  but  their  style  and  trophies  have 
—  diverse  complexions  in  the  two  sexes.  It  is  only  when 
these  distinctions  are  lost,  that  they  fail  to  interest.  It 
matters  not  how  erudite  or  mentally  gifted  a  woman  may 
be,  so  that  she  remains  in  manner  and  feeling  a  woman. 
Such  is  the  idea  that  man  loves  to  see  realized  ;  and  in 
cherishing  it,  he  gives  the  highest  proof  of  his  estimation 
of  woman.  He  delights  to  witness  the  exercise  of  her 
noblest  prerogative.  He  is  charmed  to  behold  her  in  the 
most  effective  attitude.  He  appreciates  too  truly  the 
beauty  and  power  of  her  nature  to  wish  to  see  it  arrayed 
in  any  but  a  becoming  dress.  There  is  such  a  thing  as 
female  science,  philosophy  and  poetry,  as  there  is  female 
physiognomy  and  taste ;  not  that  their  absolute  qualities 
differ  in  the  two  sexes,  but  their  relative  aspect  is  dis- 
tinct. Their  sphere  is  as  large  and  high,  and  infinitely 
more  delicate  and  deep  than  that  of  man,  though  not  so 
obvious.    When  they  overstep  their  appropriate  domain, 


264  THOUGHTS    ON   THE  POETS. 

much  of  their  mental  influence  is  lost.  Freely  and  purely 
exerted,  it  is  at  once  recognized  and  loved.  Man  de- 
lights to  meet  woman  in  the  field  of  letters  as  well  as  in 
the  arena  of  social  life.  There  also  is  she  his  better  an- 
gel. With  exquisite  satisfaction  he  learns  at  her  feet 
the  lessons  of  mental  refinement  and  moral  sensibility. 
From  her  teachings  he  catches  a  grace  and  sentiment  un- 
written by  his  own  sex.  Especially  in  poetry,  beams, 
with  starlike  beauty,  the  light  of  her  soul.  There  he 
reads  the  records  of  a  woman's  heart.  He  hears  from 
her  own  lips  how  the  charms  of  Nature  and  the  mysteries 
of  Life  have  wrought  in  her  bosom.  Of  such  women, 
Mrs.  Hemans  is  the  most  cherished  of  our  day. 

Life  is  the  prime  source  of  literature,  and  especially  of 
its  most  effective  and  universal  departments.  Poetry 
should,  therefore,  be  the  offspring  of  deep  experience. 
Otherwise  it  is  superficial  and  temporary.  What  phase 
of  existence  is  chiefly  revealed  to  woman  ?  Which  do- 
main of  experience  is  she  best  fitted  by  her  nature  and 
position  to  illustrate  ?  Undoubtedly,  the  influence  and 
power  of  the  affections.  In  these,  her  destiny  is  more 
completely  involved,  through  these  her  mind  more  exclu- 
sively acts,  than  is  the  case  with  our  sex.  Accordingly, 
her  insight  is  greater,  and  her  interest  more  extensive  in 
the  sphere  of  the  heart.  With  a  quicker  sympathy,  and 
a  finer  perception,  will  she  enter  into  the  history  and  re- 
sults of  the  affections.  Accordingly,  when  the  mantle  of 
song  falls  upon  a  woman,  we  cannot  but  look  for  new 
revelations  of  sentiment.  Not  that  the  charms  of  Nature 
and  the  majesty  of  great  events  may  not  appropriately  at- 
tract her  muse ;  but  with  and  around  these,  if  she  is  a 
true  poetess,  we  see  ever  entwined  the  delicate  flowers 
that  flourish  in  the  atmosphere  of  home,  and  are  reared 
to  full  maturity  only  under  the  training  of  woman.  Thus 
the  poekc  in  her  character  finds  free  development.  She 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


265 


can  here  speak  with  authority.  It  is,  indeed,  irreverent 
to  dictate  to  genius,  but  the  themes  of  female  poetry  are 
written  in  the  very  structure  of  the  soul.  Political  eco- 
nomy may  find  devotees  among  the  gentler  sex ;  and  so 
an  approach  to  the  mental  hardihood  of  Lady  Macbeth 
may  appear  once  in  the  course  of  an  age  ;  whereas,  every 
year  we  light  on  the  traces  of  a  Juliet,  a  Cleopatra  and 
an  Isabel.  The  spirit  of  Mrs.  Hemans  in  all  she  has 
written,  is  essentially  feminine.  Various  as  are  her  sub- 
jects, they  are  stamped  with  the  same  image  and  super- 
scription. She  has  drawn  her  prevailing  vein  of  feeling 
from  one  source.  She  has  thrown  over  all  her  effusions, 
not  so  much  the  drapery  of  knowledge,  or  the  light  of 
extensive  observation,  as  the  warm  and  shifting  hues  of 
the  heart.  These  she  had  at  command.  She  knew  their 
effect,  and  felt  their  mystery.  Hence  the  lavish  confi- 
dence with  which  she  devoted  them  to  the  creations  of 
fancy  and  the  illustration  of  truth. 

From  the  voice  of  her  own  consciousness,  Mrs.  He- 
mans  realized  what  a  capacity  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of 
strength  and  weakness,  exists  in  the  human  heart.  This 
she  made  it  her  study  to  unfold.  The  "  Restoration  of  the 
Works  of  Art  to  Italy,"  is,  as  Byron  said  when  it  appeared, 
a  very  good  poem.  It  is  a  fine  specimen  of  heroic  verse. 
The  subject  is  treated  with  judgment  and  ability,  and  the 
spirit  which  pervades  the  work  is  precisely  what  the  oc- 
casion demanded.  Still  we  feel  that  any  cultivated  and 
ideal  mind  might  have  produced  the  poem.  There  are 
no  peculiar  traits,  no  strikingly  original  conceptions.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  several  of  her  long  pieces.  It  is  in 
the  "  Songs  of  the  Affections,"  and  the  "  Records  of  Wo- 
man," that  the  poetess  is  preeminently  excellent.  Here  the 
field  is  emphatically  her  own.  She  ranges  it  with  a  free 
step  and  a  queenly  bearing  ;  and  everywhere  rich  flowers 
spring  up  in  her  path,  and  a  glowing  atmosphere,  like  the 


266 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


rosy  twilight  of  her  ancestral  land,  enlivens  and  illumines 
her  progress.  In  these  mysterious  ties  of  love,  there  is 
to  her  a  world  of  poetry.  She  not  only  celebrates  their 
strength  and  mourns  their  fragility,  but  with  pensive  ar- 
dour, dwells  on  their  eternal  destiny.  The  birth,  the 
growth,  the  decline,  the  sacrifices,  the  whole  morality  and 
spirituality  of  human  love,  is  recognized  and  proclaimed 
by  her  muse.  Profoundly  does  she  feel  the  richness  and 
the  sadness,  the  glory  and  the  gloom,  involved  in  the  af- 
fections.   She  thinks  it 

A  fearful  thing  that  Love  and  Death  may  dwell 
In  the  same  world  ! 

And  reverently  she  declares  that 

....  He  that  sits  above 
In  his  calm  glory,  will  forgive  the  love 
His  creatures  bear  each  other,  even  if  blent 
With  a  vain  worship,  for  its  close  is  dim 
Ever  with  grief,  which  leads  the  wrung  soul  back  to  Him. 

Devotion  continually  blends  with  and  exalts  her  views 
of  human  sentiment : 

I  know,  I  know  our  love 
Shall  yet  call  gentle  angels  from  above, 
By  its  undying  fervor  

Oh  !  we  have  need  of  patient  faith  below, 
To  clear  away  the  mysteries  of  wo  ! 

Bereavement  has  found  in  Mrs.  Hemans,  a  worthy  re 
corder  of  its  deep  and  touching  poetry  : 

But,  oh  !  sweet  Friend !  we  dream  not  of  Love's  might 
Till  Death  has  robed  with  soft  and  solemn  light 
The  image  we  enshrine  !— Before  that  hour, 
We  have  but  glimpses  of  the  o'ermastering  power 
Within  us  laid  ! — then  doth  the  spirit-flame 
With  sword-like  lightning  rend  its  mortal  frame; 
The  wings  of  that  which  pants  to  follow  fast, 
Shake  their  clay-bars,  as  with  a  prisoned  blast, — 
The  sea  is  in  our  souls  !  .  .  .  . 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


267 


But  thou  !  whose  thoughts  have  no  blest  home  above, 
Captive  of  earth  !  and  canst  thou  dare  to  love  ? 
To  nurse  such  feelings  as  delight  to  rest 
Within  that  hallowed  shrine  a  parent's  breast  ? 

To  fix  each  hope,  concentrate  every  tie, 

On  one  frail  idol, — destined  but  to  die ! 

Yet  mock  the  faith  that  points  to  worlds  of  light, 

Where  severed  souls,  made  perfect,  re-unite  ? 

Then  tremble  !  cling  to  every  passing  joy, 

Twined  with  the  life  a  moment  may  destroy  ! 

If  there  be  sorrow  in  a  parting  tear, 

Still  let  "  forever  "  vibrate  on  thine  ear  ! 

If  some  bright  hour  on  rapture's  wing  hath  flown, 

Find  more  than  anguish  in  the  thought — 'tis  gone ; 

Go !  to  a  voice  such  magic  influence  give, 

Thou  canst  not  lose  its  melody  and  live  ; 

And  make  an  eye  the  lode-star  of  thy  soul, 

And  let  a  glance  the  springs  of  thought  control ; 

Gaze  on  a  mortal  form  with  fond  delight, 

Till  the  fair  vision  mingles  with  thy  sight ; 

There  seek  thy  blessings,  there  repose  thy  trust, 

Lean  on  the  willow,  idolize  the  dust ! 

Then  when  thy  treasure  best  repays  thy  care, 

Think  on  that  dread  "forever ,"  and  despair. 

The  distinguishing-  attribute  of  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  He- 
mans  is  feeling.  She  sings  fervently  of  the  King  of 
Arragon,  musing  upon  his  slain  brother,  in  the  midst  of  a 
victorious  festival, — of  the  brave  boy  perishing  at  the  bat- 
tle of  the  Nile,  at  the  post  assigned  him  by  his  father, — 
of  Del  Carpio  upbraiding  the  treacherous  king: — 

u  Into  these  glassy  eyes  put  light, — be  still !  keep  down  thine 
ire, — 

Bid  these  white  lips  a  blessing  speak,  this  earth  is  not  my  sire ! 
Give  me  back  him  for  whom  I  strove,  for  whom  my  blood  was 
shed, — 

Thou  canst  not — and  a  king  ? — His  dust  be  mountains  on  thy 
head !" 

He  loosed  the  steed ;  his  slack  hand  fell, — upon  the  silent  face 
He  cast  one  long,  deep,  troubled  look, — then  turned  from  that  sad 
place. 


26S 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


His  hope  was  crushed,  his  after-fate  untold  in  martial  strain, — 
His  banner  led  the  spears  no  more  amidst  the  hills  of  Spain. 

With  how  true  a  sympathy  does  she  trace  the  prison 
musings  of  Arabella  Stuart,  portray  the  strife  of  the  heart 
in  the  Greek  bride,  and  the  fidelity  of  woman  in  the  wife 
soothing  her  husband's  dying  agonies  on  the  wheel ! 
What  a  pathetic  charm  breathes  in  the  pleadings  of  the 
"  Adopted  Child,"  and  the  meeting  of  Tasso  and  his  Sis- 
ter. How  well  she  understood  the  hopelessness  of  ideal 
love  ! 

0  ask  not,  hope  thou  not  too  much 

Of  sympathy  below — 
Few  are  the  hearts  whence  one  same  touch 

Bid  the  sweet  fountains  flow  : 
Few  and  by  still  conflicting  powers, 

Forbidden  here  to  meet — 
Such  ties  would  make  this  world  of  ours 

Too  fair  for  aught  so  fleet. 

Nor  is  it  alone  in  mere  sensibility  that  the  poetess  ex- 
cels. The  loftiness  and  the  dignity  of  her  sex  has  few 
nobler  interpreters.  What  can  be  finer  in  its  kind  than 
the  Swiss  wife's  appeal  to  her  husband's  patriotism  ? 
Her  poems  abound  in  the  worthiest  appeals  to  woman's 
fai  th : 

Her  lot  is  on  you — silent  tears  to  weep, 

And  patient  smiles  to  wear  through  Suffering's  hour, 

And  sumless  riches  from  Affection's  deep, 
To  pour  on  broken  reeds — a  wasted  shower  ! 

And  to  make  idols,  and  to  find  Ihem  Clay, 

And  to  bewail  their  worship — therefore  pray  ! 

To  depict  the  parting  grief  of  the  Hebrew  mother,  the 
repentant  tears  of  Cceur  de  Lion  at  his  father's  bier,  the 
home  associations  of  the  Eastern  stranger  at  the  sight  of 
a  palrn-tree — these,  and  such  as  these,  were  congenial 
themes  to  Mrs.  Hernans.  Joyous  as  is  her  welcome  to 
Spring,  thoughts  of  the  departed  solemnize  its  beauty. 
She  invokes  the  Ocean  not  for  its  gems  and  buried  gold, 


MRS.  HEMANS. 


269 


but  for  the  true  and  brave  that  sleep  in  its  bosom.  The 
bleak  arrival  of  the  New-England  Pilgrims,  and  the  eve- 
ning devotion  of  the  Italian  peasant-girl,  are  equally  con- 
secrated by  her  muse.  Where  there  is  profound  love, 
exalted  patriotism,  and  "  a  faith  touching  all  things  with 
hues  of  Heaven," — there  she  rejoiced  to  expatiate.  Fair 
as  Elysium  appeared  to  her  fancy,  she  celebrates  its 
splendour  only  to  reproach  its  rejection  of  the  lowly  and 
the  loved ; 

For  the  most  loved  are  they, 
Of  whom  Fame  speaks  not  with  her  clarion  voice 
In  regal  halls  !  the  shades  o'erhung  their  way, 
The  vale  with  its  deep  fountain  is  their  choice, 

And  gentle  hearts  rejoice 
Around  their  steps  !  till  silently  they  die, 
As  a  stream  shrinks  from  summer's  burning  eye. 

And  the  world  knows  not  then, 
Not  then,  nor  ever,  what  pure  thoughts  are  fled  ! 
Yet  these  are  they  that  on  the  souls  of  men 
Come  back,  when  night  her  folding  veil  hath  spread, 

The  long  remembered  dead  ! 
But  not  with  thee  might  aught  save  glory  dwell — 
Fade,  fade  away,  thou  shore  of  Asphodel ! 

It  was  the  opinion  of  Dr.  Spurzheim,  an  accurate  and 
benevolent  observer  of  life,  that  suffering  was  essential  to 
the  rich  development  of  female  character.  It  is  interest- 
ing to  trace  the  influence  of  disappointment  and  trial  in 
deepening  and  exalting  the  poetry  of  Mrs.  Hemans. 
From  the  sentimental  character  of  her  muse,  results  the 
sameness  of  which  some  readers  complain  in  perusing  her 
works.  This  apparent  monotony  only  strikes  us  when 
we  attempt  to  read  them  consecutively.  But  such  is  not 
the  manner  in  which  we  should  treat  a  poetess  who  so 
exclusively  addresses  our  feelings.  Like  Petrarch's  son- 
nets, her  productions  delight  most  when  separately  enjoy- 
ed.   Her  careful  study  of  poetry  as  an  art,  and  her  truly 


270 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


conscientious  care  in  choosing  her  language  and  forming 
her  verse,  could  not,  even  if  it  were  desirable,  prevent 
the  formation  of  a  certain  style.  It  is  obvious,  also,  that 
her  efforts  are  unequal.  The  gems,  however,  are  more 
profusely  scattered,  than  through  the  same  amount  of  wri- 
ting by  almost  any  other  modern  poet.  The  department 
of  her  muse  was  a  high  and  sacred  one.  The  path  she 
pursued  was  one  especially  heroic,  inasmuch  as  her 
efforts  imply  the  exertion  of  great  enthusiasm.  Such 
lyrics  as  we  love  in  her  pages,  are  "  fresh  from  the 
fount  of  feeling."  They  have  stirred  the  blood  of  thou- 
sands. They  have  kindled  innumerable  hearts  on  both 
sides  of  the  sea.  They  have  strewn  imperishable  flow- 
ers around  the  homes  and  graves  of  two  nations.  They 
lift  the  thoughts,  like  an  organ's  peal,  to  a  "  better  land," 
and  quicken  the  purest  sympathies  of  the  soul  into  a 
truer  life  and  more  poetic  beauty. 

The  taste  of  Mrs.  Hemans  was  singularly  elegant. 
She  delighted  in  the  gorgeous  and  imposing.  There  is  a 
remarkable  fondness  for  splendid  combination,  warlike 
pomp,  and  knightly  pageantry  betrayed  in  her  writings. 
Her  fancy  seems  bathed  in  a  Southern  atmosphere.  We 
trace  her  Italian  descent  in  the  very  flow  and  imagery  of 
her  verse.  There  is  far  less  of  Saxon  boldness  of  de- 
sign and  simplicity  of  outline,  than  of  the  rich  colouring 
and  luxuriant  grouping  of  a  warmer  clime.  Akin  to  this 
trait  was  her  passion  for  Art.  She  used  to  say  that  Mu- 
sic was  part  of  her  life.  In  fact,  the  mind  of  the  poetess 
was  essentially  romantic.  Her  muse  was  not  so  easily 
awakened  by  the  sight  of  a  beautiful  object,  as  by  the 
records  of  noble  adventure.  Her  interest  was  chiefly 
excited  by  the  brave  and  touching  in  human  experience. 
Nature  attracted  her  rather  from  its  associations  with  God 
and  humanity,  than  on  account  of  its  abstract  and  abso- 
lute qualities.    This  forms  the  great  distinction  between 


MRS.    HE  MANS. 


271 


her  poetry  and  that  of  Wordsworth.  In  the  midst  of  the 
fine  scenery  of  Wales,  her  infant  faculties  unfolded. 
There  began  her  acquaintance  with  life  and  books.  We 
are  told  of  her  great  facility  in  acquiring  languages,  her 
relish  of  Shakspere  at  the  age  of  six,  and  her  extraor- 
dinary memory.  It  is  not  difficult  to  understand  how 
her  ardent  feelings  and  rich  imagination  developed, 
with  peculiar  individuality,  under  such  circumstances. 
Knightly  legends,  tales  of  martial  enterprise — the  poetry 
of  courage  and  devotion,  fascinated  her  from  the  first. 
But  when  her  deeper  feelings  were  called  into  play,  and 
the  latent  sensibilities  of  her  nature  sprung  to  conscious 
action,  much  of  this  native  romance  was  transferred  to 
the  scenes  of  real  life,  and  the  struggles  of  the  heart. 

The  earlier  and  most  elaborate  of  her  poems  are,  in  a 
great  measure,  experimental.  It  seems  as  if  a  casual 
fancy  for  the  poetic  art  gradually  matured  into  a  devoted 
love.  Mrs.  Hemens  drew  her  power  less  from  percep- 
tion than  sympathy.  Enthusiasm,  rather  than  graphic 
talent,  is  displayed  in  her  verse.  We  shall  look  in  vain 
for  any  remarkable  pictures  of  the  outward  world.  Her 
great  aim  was  not  so  much  to  describe  as  to  move.  We 
discover  few  scenes  drawn  by  her  pen,  which  strike  us 
as  wonderfully  true  to  physical  fact.  She  does  not  make 
us  see  so  much  as  feel.  Compared  with  most  great  poets, 
she  saw  but  little  of  the  world.  The  greater  part  of  her 
life  was  passed  in  retirement.  Her  knowledge  of  distant 
lands  was  derived  from  books.  Hence  she  makes  little 
pretension  to  the  poetry  of  observation.  Sketches  copied 
directly  from  the  visible  universe  are  rarely  encountered 
in  her  works.  For  such  portraiture  her  mind  was  not 
remarkably  adapted.  There  was  another  process  far 
more  congenial  to  her — the  personation  of  feeling.  She 
loved  to  sing  of  inciting  events,  to  contemplate  her  race 
in  an  heroic  attitude,  to  explore  the  depths  of  the  soul,  and 


272 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


amid  the  shadows  of  despair  and  the  tumult  of  passion, 
point  out  some  element  of  love  or  faith  unquenched  by 
the  storm.  Her  strength  lay  in  earnestness  of  soul. 
Her  best  verses  glow  with  emotion.  When  once  truly 
interested  in  a  subject,  she  cast  over  it  such  an  air  of  feel- 
ing that  our  sympathies  are  won  at  once.  We  cannot 
but  catch  the  same  vivid  impression  ;  and  if  we  draw  from 
her  pages  no  great  number  of  definite  images,  we  cannot 
out  imbibe  what  is  more  valuable — the  warmth  and  the 
life  of  pure,  lofty,  and  earnest  emotion. 


TENNYSON. 


The  impression  often  given  by  Tennyson  is  similar  to 
that  derived  from  the  old  painters.  There  is  a  voluptuous 
glow  in  his  colouring,  warm  and  rich  as  that  of  Titian, 
yet  often  subdued  by  the  distinct  outline  and  chastened 
tone  of  the  Roman  school ;  while  the  effect  of  the  whole 
is  elevated  by  the  pure  expressiveness  of  Raphael.  This 
is  especially  observable  in  all  his  love-sketches.  Indeed 
we  are  inclined  to  believe  that  Tennyson  is  a  poet  chiefly 
through  his  sentiment.  Not  a  grace  of  female  character, 
not  a  trait  of  womanly  attraction  is  lost  upon  him ;  and 
yet  it  is  not  a  Flemish  exactitude  that  charms  us  in  his 
portraiture  ;  on  the  contrary,  what  we  recognize  most  cor- 
dially is  his  vagueness.  He  does  not  give  the  detail  of 
character  or  person,  nor  elaborately  depict  a  love-scene, 
nor  minutely  analyze  a  sentiment :  but  rather  affords  a 
few  expressive  hints  that,  like  pebbles  thrown  into  a  calm 
stream,  create  ever-widening  circles  of  association.  If 
such  an  idea  may  be  allowed,  Tennyson  deals  rather  in 
atmospheres  than  outlines.  The  effect  of  his  best  des- 
criptive touches  is  owing  chiefly  to  the  collateral  senti- 
ment in  the  light  of  which  they  are  drawn.  In  the 
"  Miller's  Daughter,"  for  instance  : 

"  The  meal-sack  on  the  whitened  floor, 
The  dark  round  of  the  dripping  wheel, 

The  very  air  about  the  door 

Made  misty  with  the  floating  meal ;"— 


274 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


is  very  Crabbe-like,  but  in  the  poem  it  is  doubly  pictur- 
esque because  so  naturally  inspired  by  the  memory  of 
love.    To  use  one  of  his  own  happy  expressions,  Ten- 
nyson is  a  "  summer-pilot  "  to  those  who  can  heartily 
abandon  themselves  to  his  guidance.  '  He  gives,  it  may 
be,  but  glimpses  of  Nature,  but  they  are  such  as  to  an 
imaginative  mind,  supersede  and  far  surpass  the  tedious 
limning  of  less  gifted  poets.    It  has  been  remarked  by  a 
celebrated  writer,  that  "  the  poet  and  artist  has  two  things 
to  do  ;  to  lift  himself  above  the  real,  and  to  keep  within 
the  circle  of  the  sensuous."    In  some  of  Tennyson's  po- 
ems this  law  is  exquisitely  observed  and  illustrated.  A 
series  of  physical  descriptions  constantly  make  us  sensi- 
ble of  the  actual  world,  while  inwrought  with  this,  the 
feeling  of  the  piece,  whether  love,  sorrow,  or  remorse,  is 
kept  vividly  before  us  in  all  its  abstract  significance.  As 
an  instance,  take  "  Mariana."    We  may  notice,  by  the 
way,  that  this  is  a  beautiful  example  of  a  true  poet's  sug- 
gestiveness.    In  "  Measure  for  Measure  "  we  have  but 
a  glance  at  this  "  poor  gentlewoman."    Tennyson  intro- 
duces us  to  the  "  moated  grange,"  so  that  we  see  her  in 
all  her  desolation.    "  The  rusted  nails  that  fell  from  the 
knots  that  held  the  peach  to  the  garden  wall  " — the  moss 
crusted  on  the  flower-pots — the  poplar  that  "  shook  alway," 
and  even  the  "  blue  fly  that  sung  in  the  pane,"  are  im- 
ages full  of  graphic  meaning,  and  give  us  the  lonely  sen- 
sation that  belongs  to  the  deserted  mansion ;  and  when, 
at  the  close  of  each  stanza,  the  melancholy  words  of  Ma- 
riana, bewailing  her  abandonment,  fall  on  the  ear  with 
their  sad  cadence,  we  take  in  as  completely  the  whole 
scene  and  sentiment  as  if  identified  with  it.    He  is  not, 
however,  invariably  as  well  sustained  in  his  efforts ;  in 
fact,  while  we  do  justice  to  Tennyson's  peculiar  excellen- 
cies, we  cannot  but  admit  that  when  half  developed  or 
pushed  to  extremes,  they  become  defects  ;  and  this  ac- 


TENNYSON. 


275 


counts  for  the  remarkable  difference  of  opinion  which 
has  been  manifested  in  regard  to  him.  No  person  of 
sentiment,  (I  use  the  word  in  its  best  sense,)  can  fail  to 
espouse  his  claims  with  enthusiasm,  for  he  has  gone  sin- 
gularly near  the  heart  of  this  mystery  and  written  there- 
on with  authority.  Still  he  is  sometimes  grotesque  and 
his  feeling  occasionally  is  morbid.  He  has  performed 
some  miracles  of  versification,  and  achieved  verbal  melo- 
dies, especially  in  his  ballads,  that  vindicate  most  sweetly 
our  so-called  harsh  Saxon  idiom.  Still  even  on  this 
score  he  is  chargeable  at  least  with  carelessness  ;  yet  is 
he  one  of  those  of  whose  faults  we  speak  regretfully. 
His  genius  is,  indeed,  too  precious  for  cavilling ;  let  us  ra- 
ther endeavour  to  note  some  of  its  traits. 

There  is  more  or  less  of  pathos  in  all  true  beauty. 
The  delight  it  awakens  has  an  undefmable  and,  as  it 
were,  luxurious  sadness,  which  is  perhaps  one  element  of 
its  might.  It  may  be  that  this  feeling  springs  from  a 
sense  of  unattained  good,  of  a  perfection  of  being  quite  at 
variance  with  the  present,  which  the. beautiful  never  fails 
to  suggest, — in  the  thought  of  "  beauty  and  anguish  walk- 
ing hand  in  hand,  the  downward  road  to  death  ;"  or  it  may 
originate  in  that  half-conscious  memory  of  pre-existence 
to  which  are  so  often  referred  the  aspirations  of  the 
heart.  It  is  this  blending  of  admiration  and  pity,  of  ten- 
derness and  awe  which  is  the  best  indication  of  poetry 
both  as  an  instinct  and  an  art.  If  in  reading  or  hearing 
read  any  production  for  the  first  time,  these  primal  emo- 
tions are  awakened,  if  an  almost  infinite  capacity  seems 
all  at  once  revived,  and  while  melted  with  a  kind  of 
pleading  love,  we  are  at  the  same  time  exalted  by  venera- 
tion— the  spirit  of  poetry  is  in  and  around  us.  Were 
the  feeling  all  pleasure  it  might  be  merely  imaginative  ; 
were  it  chiefly  the  zest  of  novelty  it  might  be  gratified 
curiosity  ;  but  the  "  fearful  joy  "  of  the  mood  in  question 


276  THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 

is  bora  where  the  senses  and  the  soul  meet  and  respond 
to  one  appeal — where  the  former  thoroughly  perceive  and 
the  latter  deeply  feels  the  glory  of  life  and  nature. 
u  From  my  little  experience,"  says  a  great  poet  of  our 
own  age,  "  thus  much  has  become  clear  to  me,  that  upon 
the  whole  one  cannot  through  poetry  make  people  happy, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  very  uncomfortable."  To  stir  asso- 
ciations which  mar  the  complacency  of  prosaic  existence ; 
to  renew  youth's  dreams  until  they  glow  in  painful  con- 
trast with  subsequent  reality ;  to  set  forth  with  beauty 
that  persuades  even  against  our  will ; — the  fair  ideal — thus 
conforming  "  the  show  of  things  to  the  desires  of  the 
soul,"  is  to  touch  many  a  chord  of  wild  regret  and  sug- 
gest numberless  hopes  too  lofty  for  easy  realization. 
Hence  it  is  only  in  an  heroic  spirit  that  the  influence  of 
poetry  can  be  made  consoling ;  it  is  only  in  the  heart 
which  adores  truth  that  "  a  thing  of  beauty  is  a  joy  for- 
ever." Not  to  passive  recipients  of  pleasurable  reveries 
does  the  true  bard  minister.  He  moves  us  through  our 
deepest  sympathies  ;  and  the  best  evidence  of  his  presence 
is  felt  "  along  the  line  of  limitless  desires."  That  Aifred 
Tennyson  thus  affects  the  reader  who  in  any  degree  en- 
ters into  his  spirit  is  undeniable  ;  and  that  he  thus  tri- 
umphs somewhat  after  an  original  method  is  equally 
clear ;  and  this,  in  gratitude  and  sympathy,  we  can  affirm 
without  denying  that  his  tone  is,  at  times,  not  quite  health- 
ful, and  his  style  occasionally  emasculated  by  petty  and 
needless  affectation. 

He  has  evidently  fed  his  imagination  at  the  best  foun- 
tains. We  trace  continually  his  intimacy  with  Shaks- 
pere  and  Dante.  In  the  "  Dream  of  Fair  Women,"  the 
beautiful  description  of  Cleopatra  is  evidently  drawn  from 
the  "  wrangling  queen  whom  everything  becomes,"  of 
the  great  dramatist. 


TENNYSON. 


277 


w  We  coursed  about 
The  subject  most  at  heart,  more  near  and  near, 
Like  doves  about  a  dovecote,  wheeling  round 
The  central  wish,  until  we  settled  there. 

This  fine  metaphor  we  find  thus  expressed  by  the 
"  grim  Tuscan :" 

"  Quali  colombe  dal  disio  chiamate, 
Con  l'ali  aperte  a  ferme  al  dolce  nido 
Vengon  per  aere  da  voler  portate."* 

But  he  makes  the  wisest  use  of  Dante  in  frequently 
adopting  the  sententious  and  suggestive  manner  before 
alluded  to.  It  is  characteristic  of  Tennyson,  admirably 
to  improve  familiar  materials.  Warmed  by  his  imagina- 
tion, clad  in  his  felicitous  language,  or  penetrated  by  his 
refined  sentiment,  the  hackneyed  theme  or  common  ob- 
ject, are  re-produced  with  a  new  and  endearing  beauty. 
How  finely  has  he  wrought  up  the  old  legend  of  Godiva. 
The  description  of  her  unrobing  is  just  such  a  gem  in  its 
way,  as  the  same  incident  in  "  The  Eve  of  St.  Agnes." 
"  Then  fled  she  to  her  inmost  bower  and  there 

Unclasped  the  wedded  eagles  of  her  belt, 
The  grim  Earl's  gift ;  but  ever  at  a  breath 

She  lingered,  looking  like  a  summer  moon 
Half  dipped  in  cloud ;  anon  she  shook  her  head, 

And  showered  the  rippled  ringlets  to  her  knee  ; 
Unclad  herself  in  haste  ;  adown  the  stair 

Stole  on  ;  and  like  a  creeping  sunbeam,  slid 
From  pillar  unto  pillar,  till  she  reached 

The  gateway  ;  there  she  found  her  palfrey  trapt 
In  purple,  emblazoned  with  armorial  gold." 

Some  passages  of  the  "  Lotos  Eaters,"  give  a  sensa- 
tion of  luxurious  repose  far  more  consciously  than  the 
Castle  of  Indolence.  How  definitely  the  following 
stanza  transports  us  to  a  beach — 

**  So  shape  chased  shape  as  swift  as  when  to  land 
Bluster  the  winds  and  tides  the  self  same  way, 

4  Inferno  j  Canto  V 

16=* 


278 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Crisp  foam-flakes  scud  along  the  level  sand 
Torn  from  the  fringe  of  spray  ; 

And  this  to  a  woodland — 

Growths  of  jasmine  turned 
Their  humid  arms  festooning  tree  to  tree, 
And  at  their  root  through  lush  green  grasses  burned 
The  red  anemone. 

In  the  following  verses  we  have  presented  three  favour- 
ite subjects  of  the  old  masters,  copied  as  it  were,  in 
dainty  verbal  mosaic : 

"  Or  sweet  Europa's  mantle  blew  unclasp'd 
From  off  her  shoulder  backward  borne, 

From  one  hand  droop'd  a  crocus ;  one  hand  gra9p'd 
The  wild  bull's  golden  horn. 
****** 

"  Or  else  flushed  Ganymede,  his  rosy  thigh 

Half  buried  in  the  eagle's  down, 
Sole  as  a  flying  star  shot  through  the  sky 

Above4he  pillar'd  town. 
***** 

''Or  the  maid-mother  by  a  crucifix, 

In  tracts  of  pasture  sunny-warm, 
Beneath  branch-work  of  costly  sardonyx, 

Sat  smiling  babe  in  arm." 

Truth  is  the  aim  and  essence  of  poetry  as  of  science 
and  art.  It  is  in  the  endeavour  to  attain  the  essential 
features  of  a  landscape,  or  the  absolute  facts  of  a  moral 
experience,  to  bring  them  out  almost  palpably  and  to  take 
them  home  to  the  reader's  perception  and  sympathy — 
that  the  poet  exercises  his  peculiar  vocation.  He  may  be 
said  to  be  in  love  with  Truth  ;  and  as  Thomson  was  en- 
amoured of  the  phenomena  of  outward  nature,  Byron  of 
the  adventurous,  and  Shelley  of  the  ideal,  Tennyson 
seems  the  devoted  lover  of  truth  in  human  relations,  and 
especially  in  those  based  on  voluntary  sympathy  and  in- 
stinctive attraction.  He  has  faith  in  that  comfort  which 
springs  only  from  "  division  of  the  records  of  the  mind." 
He  is  one  of  those 


TENNYSON. 


279 


"  Dowered  with  the  hate  of  hate,  the  scorn  of  scorn, 
The  love  of  love." 

We  know  not  a  more  clear  and  effective  plea  against 
inconstancy — a  more  just  and  at  the  same  time  convin- 
cing argument  in  favour  of  the  soul's  rights  as  opposed 
to  external  benefits,  than  "  Locksley  Hall."    Never,  in 
our  language  at  least,  has  infidelity,  its  consequences  and 
influence  been  so  truly  exemplified.    The  workings  of  a 
noble  mind  under  the  withering  consciousness  of  wasted 
and  baffled  affection,  appear  in  undisguised  earnestness. 
Few  single  poems  have  awakened  more  responses.  To 
the  large  number  who  have  compromised  their  senti- 
ment, its  stately  lines  must  be  as  arrows  of  remorse ;  to 
the  faithless  it  offers  a  picture  of  the  evil  they  have  caus- 
ed, that  silence  the  benign  excuse — "  they  know  not  what 
they  do" ;  and  to  the  betrayed  it  revives  in  characters  of 
fire,  the  hour  of  their  self-pity  and  tearful  scorn  !    In  this 
poem  we  have  the  appeal  of  Love  against  Gain  ;  in 
"  Vere  de  Vere,"  "  Lady  Clare"  and  "  The  Lord  of  Bur- 
leigh"— against  Birth.    "  Dora"  is  a  sweet  pastoral,  hint- 
ing the  effect  of  familiarity  upon  the  affections.    "  The 
Talking  Oak"  gives  expression  to  love  in  its  flower,  and 
the  "  Miller's  Daughter"  in  its  fruition ;  while  the  birth 
»f  the  passion  is  described  with  singular  delicacy  in  the 
11  Gardener's  Daughter." 

In  these  and  similar  compositions,  Tennyson  opens  new 
leaves  in  the  heart ;  he  bathes  the  fancy  in  the  most 
entrancing  illusions,  and  leads  us  gently  back  to  the  sour- 
ces of  rich  and  heavenly  feeling.  Nor  is  his  sentiment 
mere  tenderness  ;  from  the  idea  of  loyalty  amid  obstacles, 
or  self-sacrifice  to  the  sense  of  right,  it  often  is  associated 
with  the  noblest  resolution  and  the  sweetest  dignity.  He 
asks ; 

"  Of  love  that  never  found  an  earthly  close, 
What  se  piel  ?    Streaming:  eyes  and  breaking  hearts  ? 
Or  all  the  same  as  if  he  had  not  been  ? 


2S0 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


**  If  this  were  thus,  if  this  indeed  were  all, 
Better  the  narrow  brain,  the  stony  heart, 
The  staring  eye  glazed  o'er  with  sapless  days, 
The  long,  mechanic  pacing,  to  and,  fro, 
The  set  gray  life  and  apathetic  end. 
But  am  1  not  the  nobler  through  thy  love  ? 
O  these  times  less  unworthy  !  likewise  thou 
Art  more  through  love,  and  greater  than  thy  years. 
The  sun  will  run  his  orbit  and  the  moon 
Her  circle.     Wait,  and  Love  himself  will  bring 
The  drooping  power  of  Knowledge  changed  to  fruit 
Of  Wisdom.    Wait :  my  faith  is  large  in  Time, 
And  that  which  shapes  it  to  some  perfect  end." 

"  Love  and  Duty,"  from  which  this  extract  is  gleaned, 
reminds  us  of  the  selectest  passages  of  the  old  dramatists 
in  its  united  clearness  and  fervour.  Who  that  has  ever 
renounced  from  principle  that  to  which  his  soul  clung, 
feels  not  the  significance  of  such  language  as  this  ? 

"  O  then,  like  those  that  clench  their  nerves  to  rush 
Upon  their  dissolution,  we  two  rose, 
There — closing  like  an  individual  life — 
In  one  blind  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain, 
Like  bitter  accusation  even  to  death, 
Caught  up  the  whole  of  love  and  uttered  it, 
And  bade  adieu  forever. 


MISS  BARRETT. 


Genuine  verse  is  an  excellent  safety-valve.  I  once 
heard  the  publication  of  a  lady's  effusions  regretted  by 
one  of  her  sex,  on  the  ground  that  she  had  "  printed  her 
soul."  The  objection  is  not  without  significance  to  a  re- 
fined nature,  but  its  force  is  much  diminished  by  the  fact 
that  poetry  is  "  caviare  to  the  general."  It  is  the  few- 
alone  who  possess  any  native  relish  for  the  muse,  and  a 
still  more  select  audience  who  can  trace  the  limits  between 
fancy  and  the  actual,  or  discover  the  separate  fruits  of 
personal  experience  and  mere  observation.  Those  capa- 
ble of  thus  identifying  the  emanations  of  the  mind  with 
traits  of  character,  and  recognizing  the  innate  desires  or 
peculiar  affections  of  a  writer,  and  plucking  out  the  heart 
of  his  mystery,  will  be  the  very  ones  to  reverence  his  se- 
cret, or  at  least  to  treat  it  with  delicacy.  The  truth  is, 
no  one  can  reach  the  fountains  of  emotion  in  another,  ex- 
cept through  sympathy — and  there  is  a  freemasonry,  an 
instinctive  mutual  understanding  thus  awakened,  which 
makes  the  revelation  sacred.  Accordingly  there  is  little 
danger  of  a  compromise  of  self-respect  in  uttering  to  the 
world  our  inward  life,  if  any  proper  degree  of  tact  and 
dignity  is  observed.  The  lovers  of  poetry  are  thus  gra- 
tified ;  the  deeper  sentiments  and  higher  aspirations  of 
the  universal  heart  are  confirmed ;  solace  is  afforded  the 
unhappy  by  confessions  of  kindred  sorrow — and  all  the 
while,  the  privacy  of  the  individual  isuninvaded.    At  the 


282 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


same  time,  let  us  acknowledge  that  authorship,  as  a  career, 
is  undesirable  for  a  woman.  Only  when  duty  lends  her 
sanction,  or  pre-eminent  gifts  seem  almost  to  anticipate 
destiny,  can  the  most  brilliant  exhibition  of  talent  add  to 
the  intrinsic  graces  or  true  influence  of  the  sex.  There 
are  circumstances,  however,  which  not  only  justify  but 
ennoble  publicity.  There  are  situations  in  life  which  in 
a  manner  evoke  from  retirement  those  whose  tastes  are 
all  for  seclusion.  If  we  look  narrowly  into  the  history 
of  those  with  whose  thoughts  and  feelings  literature  has 
made  us  most  intimate,  it  will  often  appear  that  in  them 
there  was  combined  a  degree  of  sensibility  and  reflection 
which  absolutely,  by  the  very  law  of  the  soul,  must  find 
a  voice,  and  that  it  was  the  pressure  of  some  outward  ne- 
cessity, or  the  pain  of  some  inward  void  that  made  that 
voice — (fain  to  pour  itself  out  in  low  and  earnest  tones) 
— audible  to  all  mankind.  Some  one  has  said  that  fame 
is  love  disguised.  The  points  of  a  writer  are  usually 
those  wherein  he  has  been  most  alone ;  and  they  owe 
their  effect  to  the  vividness  of  expression  which  always 
results  from  conscious  self-reliance.  Literary  vanity  is  a 
frequent  subject  of  ridicule  ;  but  many  confound  a  thirst 
for  recognition  with  a  desire  for  praise.  The  former  is 
a  manly  as  well  as  a  natural  sentiment.  Indeed  there  is 
something  noble  in  the  feeling  which  leads  an  ardent 
mind — looking  in  vain  for  a  response  to  its  oracles  among 
the  fellow  creatures  amid  which  its  lot  is  cast — to  appeal 
to  a  wider  circle  and  send  its  messages  abroad  on  the 
wings  of  the  press,  in  the  hope  and  faith  that  some  heart 
will  leap  at  the  tidings  and  accept  them  as  its  own.  I  am 
persuaded  that  this  truly  human  craving  for  sympathy 
and  intelligent  communion,  is  frequently  mistaken  for  a 
weaker  and  more  selfish  appetite — the  morbid  love  of 
fame.  High-toned  and  sensitive  beings  invariably  find 
their  most  native  aliment  in  personal  associations.  They 


MISS    BATtR  E  TT. 


283 


are  sufficiently  aware  that  notoriety  profanes,  that  the 
nooks,  and  not  the  arena  of  life  afford  the  best  refresh- 
ment. It  is  usually  because  poverty,  ill-health,  domestic 
trial,  political  tyranny,  or  misplaced  affection,  has  deprived 
their  hearts  of  a  complete  sanctuary,  that  they  seek  for 
usefulness  and  honour  in  the  fields  of  the  world. 

"  My  poems,"  says  Miss  Barrett,  "  while  full  of  faults, 
as  I  go  forward  to  my  critics  and  confess,  have  my  soul 
and  life  in  them."  We  gather  from  other  hints  in  the 
preface  and  especially  from  her  poetry  itself,  that  the 
life  of  which  it  is  "  the  completest  expression  "attainable, 
has  been  one  of  unusual  physical  suffering,  frequent 
loneliness  and  great  study.  As  a  natural  result  there  is  a 
remarkable  predominance  of  thought  and  learning,  even 
in  the  most  inartificial  overflow  of  her  muse.  Continu- 
ally we  are  met  by  allusions  which  indicate  familiarity 
with  classic  lore.  Her  reveries  are  imbued  with  the  spi- 
rit of  antique  models.  The  scholar  is  everywhere  co- 
evident  with  the  poet.  In  this  respect  Miss  Barrett  dif- 
fers from  Mrs.  Hemans  and  Mrs.  Norton,  in  whose  effu- 
sions enthusiasm  gives  the  tone  and  colour.  In  each 
we  perceive  a  sense  of  beauty  and  the  pathos  born 
of  grief,  but  in  the  former  these  have  a  statuesque,  and  in 
the  two  latter  a  glowing  development.  The  cheerfulness 
of  Miss  Barrett  appears  the  fruit  of  philosophy  and  faith. 
She  labours  to  reconcile  herself  to  life  through  wisdom 
and  her  religious  creed,  and  justifies  tenderness  by  reason. 
This  is  a  rather  masculine  process.  The  intellect  is  the 
main  agent  in  realizing  such  an  end.  Yet  discipline  and 
isolation  explain  it  readily;  and  the  poetess  doubtless  speaks 
from  consciousness  when  she  declares  the  object  of  her 
art  "  to  vindicate  the  necessary  relation  of  genius  to  suf- 
fering and  self-sacrifice."  The  defect  of  poetry  thus  con- 
ceived is  the  absence  of  spontaneous,  artless  and  exube- 
rant feeling.    There  is  a  certain  hardness  and  formality, 


284  THOUGHTS  ON    THE  POETS. 

a  want  of  abandon  of  manner,  a  lack  of  gushing  melody, 
such  as  takes  the  sympathies  captive  at  once.  We  are 
conscious,  indeed— painfully  conscious — that  strong  feei- 
ng is  here  at  work,  but  it  is  restrained,  high-strung  and 
profound.  The  human  seems  to  find  no  natural  repose, 
and  strives,  with  a  tragic  vigour  that  excites  admiration, 
to  anticipate  its  spiritual  destiny  even  while  arrayed  in 
mortal  habiliments.  Without  subscribing  to  her  theology 
we  respect  her  piety.  "  Angelic  patience  "  is  the  lesson 
she  teaches  with  skill  and  eloquence.  She  would  have 
the  soul  ever  "  nobler  than  its  mood"  In  her  isolation 
and  pain  she  communed  with  bards  and  sages,  and  found 
in  their  noble  features,  encouragement  such  as  petty  joys 
failed  to  give.  She  learned  to  delight  in  the  ideals  of  hu- 
manity and  gaze  with  awe  and  love  on  their 

Sublime  significance  of  mouth, 
Dilated  nostrils  full  of  youth, 
And  forehead  royal  with  the  truth. 

In  her  view, 

Life  treads  on  life  and  heart  on  heart — 
We  press  too  close  in  church  and  mart, 
To  keep  a  dream  or  grave  apart. 

And  from  all  this  she  turns  to  herself,  and  cherishes 
her  individuality  with  a  kind  of  holy  pride.  She  seeks 
in  the  ardent  cultivation  of  her  intellectual  resources  a  so- 
lace for  the  wounds  and  privations  of  life.  She  reflects 
intensely — traces  the  footsteps  of  heroes — endeavours  to 
make  the  wisdom  of  the  Past  and  the  truths  of  God  her 
own — and  finds  a  high  consolation  in  embodying  the 
fruits  of  this  experience  in  verse : 

In  my  large  joy  of  sight  and  touchy 
Beyond  what  others  count  as  such, 
I  am  content  to  suffer  much. 

It  would  argue  a  strange  insensibility  not  to  recognise 


MISS  BARRETT. 


285 


a  redeeming  beauty  in  such  an  example.    Miss  Barrett 
is  an  honour  to  her  sex,  and  no  member  thereof  can  fail 
to  derive  advantage  from  the  spirit  of  her  muse.  It 
speaks  words  of  "  heroic  cheer,"  and  suggests  thoughtful 
courage,  sublime  resignation,  and  exalted  hope.    At  the 
same  time,  we  cannot  but  feel  her  incompleteness.  We 
incline  to,  and  have  faith  in  less  systematic  phases  of 
woman's  character.    There  is  a  native  tenderness  and 
grace,  a  child-like  play  of  emotion,  a  simple  utterance 
that  brings  more  genial  refreshment.    We  do  not  depre- 
cate Miss  Barrett's  lofty  spirit  and  brave  scholarship. 
They  are  alike  honourable  and  efficient ;  but  sometimes 
they  overlay  nature  and  formalize  emotion,  making  the 
pathway  to  the  heart  rather  too  long  and  coldly  elegant 
for  quick  and  entire  sympathy.    Yet  this  very  blending 
of  sense  and  sensibility,  learning  and  love,  reason  and 
emotion,  will  do  much  and  has  already  done  much  (as 
we  can  perceive  by  recent  criticisms)  to  vindicate  true 
sentiment  and  a  genuine  devotion  to  the  beautiful.  These 
glorious  instincts  are  sternly  rebuked  every  day  under 
the  name  of  enthusiasm,  imagination  and  romance,  as 
vain  and  absurd,  by  those  who  have  intelligent  but  whol- 
ly practical  minds.    The  sound  and  vigorous  thought 
visible  in  Miss  Barrett's  poetry,  and  the  self-dependence 
she  inculcates,  will  command- the  respect  and  win  the  at- 
tention of  a  class  who  sneer  at  Tennyson  as  fantastic,  and 
Keats  as  lack-a-daisical.    They  may  thus  come  to  rea- 
lize how  the  most  kindling  fancies  and  earnest  love,  ay, 
the  very  gentleness  and  idealism  which  they  deem  so 
false  and  weak,  may  co-exist  with  firm  will,  rare  judg- 
ment, conscientiousness  and  truth,  lending  them  both  fire 
and  grace,  and  educing  from  actual  and  inevitable  ill, 
thoughts  of  comfort  like  these. 

Think  !  the  shadow  on  the  dial 
For  the  nature  most  undone, 


286 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Marks  the  passing  of  the  trial, 

Proves  the  presence  of  the  sun  ! 
Look  !  look  up  in  starry  passion, 

To  the  throne  above  the  spheres, 
Learn  !  the  spirit's  gravitation 

Still  must  differ  from  the  tear's. 
Hope  !  with  all  the  strength  thou  usest 

In  embracing  thy  despair  ; 
Love  !  the  earthly  love  thou  lovest 

Shall  return  to  thee  more  fair  ; 
Work  !  make  clear  the  forest  tangling 

Of  the  wildest  stranger  land  ; 
Trust !  the  blessed  deathly  angels 

Whisper  "  Sabbath  hours  at  hand." 

Miss  Barrett's  imagery  is  often  Dantesque  and  Miltonic 
She  evinces  a  certain  distrust  of  her  own  originality 
but  her  tastes,  both  natural  and  acquired,  obviously  ally 
her  to  the  more  thoughtful  and  rhetorical  poets.  In  the 
"  Drama  of  Exile"  are  numerous  passages,  born  of  the 
same  earnest  contemplations  which  give  such  grave  im- 
port to  the  language  of  the  sightless  bard  of  England, 
and  the  father  of  Italian  song.  The  following  are  exam- 
ples to  the  purpose : 

....  As  the  pine, 
In  Norland  forests,  drops  its  weight  of  sorrows 
By  a  night's  grow.h,  so  growing  towards  my  ends 

I  drop  thy  counsel. 

****** 

Drawing  together  her  large  globes  of  eyes, 

The  light  of  which  is  throbbing  in  and  out, 

Around  their  continuity  of  gaze. 

Adam,  as  he  wanders  from  Paradise,  exclaims, 

How  doth  the  wide  and  melancholy  earth 
Gather  her  hills  around  us  gray  and  ghast, 
And  stare  with  blank  significance  of  loss 
Right  in  our  faces. 

Lucifer  narrates  an  incident  with  singular  vividness : 
Dost  thou  remember,  Adam,  when  the  curse 
Took  us  from  Eden  ?    On  a  mountain  peak 


MISS    BA  RRE  TT. 


287 


Half-sheathed  in  primal  woods,  and  glittering 
In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine,  at  that  hour 
A  lion  couched — part  raised  upon  his  paws, 
With  his  calm,  massive  face  turned  full  on  thine, 
And  his  mane  listening.    When  the  ended  curse 
Left  silence  in  the  world,  right  suddenly 
He  sprang  up  rampant,  and  stood  straight  and  stiff, 
As  if  the  new  reality  of  death 

Were  dashed  against  his  eyes — and  roared  so  fierce, 
(Such  thick,  carniverous  passion  in  his  throat 
Tearing  a  passage  through  the  wrath  and  fear,) 
And  roared  so  wild,  and  smote  from  all  the  hills 
Such  fast,  keen  echoes,  crumbling  down  the  oaks, 
To  distant  silence,  that  the  forest  beasts, 
One  after  one,  did  mutter  a  response 
In  savage  and  in  sorrowful  complaint, 
Which  trailed  along  the  gorges.    Then  at  once 
He  fell  back,  and  rolled  crashing  from  the  height, 
Hid  hy  the  dark-orbed  pines." 

Lucifer's  curse  is  a  grand  specimen  of  blank  verse.  *As 
instances  of  terse  and  meaning  language,  take  the  two 
brief  stanzas  descriptive  of  Petrarch  and  Byron.  The 
phrase  "  forlornly  brave,"  applied  to  the  latter,  is  very- 
significant  : 

Who  from  his  brain-lit  heart  hath  thrown 

A  thousand  thoughts  beneath  the  sun, 

Ml  perfumed  with  the  name  of  one. 
***** 

And  poor,  proud  Byron,  sad  as  grave, 
And  salt  as  life,  forlornly  brave, 
And  grieving  with  the  dart  he  drave. 

"  The  Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  of  May"  and  "  Bertha  in 
the  Lane"  are  by  no  means  perfect,  artistically  speaking, 
but  they  have  genuine  pathos.  "  To  Flush,  my  Dog" 
is  apt  as  a  piece  of  familiar  verse.  "  Cowper's  Grave" 
and  "  Sleep"  have  a  low,  sad  music,  at  once  real  and 
affecting;  while  many  of  the  lines  in  "  Geraldine"  ring 
nobly  and  sweet ;  and  in  "  The  Crowned  and  Wedded," 


288 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


"  The  Lady's  Yes,"  and  other  minor  pieces,  the  true 
dignity  of  her  sex  is  admirably  illustrated.  While  thus 
giving  Miss  Barrett  due  credit  for  her  versatile  talent, 
we  repeat  that,  in  our  view,  the  most  interesting  phase  of 
her  genius  is  her  sincere  recognition  of  that  loyalty  and 
tenderness — that  "  strong  necessity  of  loving,"  and  that 
divine  reality  of  the  heart,  which  are  essential  to  all  that 
is  moving  in  poetry  and  all  that  is  winsome  in  experience. 
Could  we  not  trace  the  woman  beneath  attainment  and 
reflection,  our  admiration  might  be  excited,  but  our  sym- 
pathies would  not  awaken. 

The  most  beautiful  passages  of  the  "  Drama,"  to  our 
thinking,  are  such  as  these  : 

Adam.  God  !  I  render  back 

Strong  benediction  and  perpetual  praise 
From  mortal,  feeble  lips  (as  incense  smoke 
Out  of  a  little  censer  may  fill  heaven) 
That  thou  in  striking  my  benumbed  hands, 
And  forcing  them  to  drop  all  other  boons 
Of  beauty  and  dominion  and  delight, 
Hast  left  this  well-beloved  Eve — this  life 
Within  life,  this  best  gift  between  their  palms 
In  gracious  compensation  ! 

***** 
0  my  God  ! 

In  standing  here  between  the  glory  and  dark — 
The  glory  of  thy  wrath  projected  forth 
From  Eden's  wall ;  the  dark  of  our  distress 
Which  settles  a  step  off  in  the  drear  world — 
Lift  up  to  thee  the  hands  from  whence  have  fallen 
Only  Creation's  sceptre,  thanking  thee 
That  rather  thou  hast  cast  me  out  with  her 
Than  left  me  lorn  of  her  in  Paradise, 
With  angel  looks  and  angel  songs  around, 
To  show  the  absence  of  her  eyes  and  voice, 
And  make  society  full  desertness 
Without  the  uses  of  her  comforting. 
***** 


MISS  BARRETT. 


289 


....  Because  with  her  I  stand 
Upright  as  far  as  can  be  in  the  fall, 
And  look  away  from  heaven,  which  doth  accuse  me, 
And  look  up  from  the  earth  which  doth  convict  me, 
Into  her  face ;  and  crown  my  discrowned  brow, 
Out  of  her  love  ;  and  put  the  thoughts  of  her 
Around  me  for  an  Eden  full  of  birds; 
And  lift  her  body  up — thus — to  my  heart ; 
And  with  my  lips  upon  her  lips  thus,  thus — 
Do  quicken  and  sublimate  my  mortal  breath, 
Which  cannot  climb  against  the  grave's  steep  sides, 
But  overtops  this  grief.  .... 

The  essence  of  all  beauty  I  call  love, 
The  attribute,  the  evidence  and  end, 
The  consummation  to  the  inward  sense 
Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without 
I  still  call  love.  .... 

....  Mother  of  the  world, 
Take  heart  before  His  presence.    Rise,  aspire 
Unto  the  calms  and  magnanimities, 
The  lofty  uses  and  the  noble  ends, 
The  sanctified  devotion  and  full  work, 
To  which  thou  art  elect  forevermore, 
First  woman,  wife  and  mother  ! 


17 


DRAKE. 


Fine  social  qualities  are  not  so  generally  esteemed  in 
this  country  as  beyond  the  sea.  Leisure  is  requisite  for 
their  exercise  and  enjoyment,  and  the  vast  majority  of 
Americans  are  so  busy,  that  a  late  traveller  complains  he 
could  seldom  find  an  opportunity  to  converse  among 
them.  The  stranger  doubtless  used  the  phrase  in  its 
highest  signification.  Madame  de  Stael  says,  that  the 
only  legitimate  subjects  of  conversation  are  those  of  uni- 
versal interest.  There  are  few  readier  methods  whereby 
the  mind  can  be  set  free  from  egotistical  annoyances  and 
narrow  cares,  than  by  such  high  and  liberal  communion. 
Genius  is  not  restricted  to  the  use  of  mechanical  imple- 
ments. The  pen  and  the  easel  are  not  the  only  means 
by  which  gifted  spirits  impress  us.  The  world  is  singu- 
larly unjust  in  its  estimate  of  mental  activity  and  useful- 
ness. "  Why  should  I  be  always  writing?"  asked  Dr. 
Johnson,  and  who  doubts  now,  that  his  talk  was  more 
efficient  than  his  pen-craft?  The  auditors  of  Coleridge, 
who  were  capable  of  appreciating  his  eloquence,  never 
complain  that  he  produced  so  little ;  and  those  whose 
privilege  it  was  to  listen  to  the  fluent  wisdom  of  Allston, 
felt  most  deeply  that  he  was  not  born  merely  to  transfer 
his  conceptions  to  canvass.  The  social  powers  and  sym- 
pathies are  a  constituent  element  of  genius.  Quickened 
and  warmed  by  their  affections,  the  poet  and  artist  are 
unconscious  of  labour.    It  is  the  aimless  and  lonely 


DRAKE. 


291 


efforts  of  the  recluse,  that  bear  the  stamp  of  constraint. 
We  can  imagine  what  a  work  of  love  it  was  for  the  old 
masters  to  portray  the  beings  to  whom  they  were 
attached  ;  and  these  are  their  fairest  trophies.  Petrarch's 
heavy  epic  is  neglected,  but  the  sonnets  which  were  the 
genial  overflowings  of  his  enamoured  heart  are  immortal. 
Are  not  the  fresh,  strong  traits  of  the  old  English  drama, 
somewhat  owing  to  the  mutual  labours  of  their  authors  ? 
Had  not  the  pleasant  gatherings  at  Wills'  and  Button's, 
considerable  influence  in  producing  the  early  British 
essayists?  In  truth,  the  social  relations  of  genius  form 
its  best  nursery  and  home.  The  attrition  of  mind  with 
mind  ;  the  frank  and  kindly  interchange  of  feeling,  and 
the  cheering  ministrations  of  friendship,  throw  an  atmos- 
phere around  the  sensitive  and  ardent  mind,  in  which  its 
sweetest  flowers  bloom,  and  its  best  fruits  mature.  It 
was  to  please  Lady  Hesketh,  that  Cowper  wrote  the 
Task.  There  is  no  inspiration  like  love  and  friendship. 
The  image  of  an  endeared  being  is  more  encouraging  to 
the  child  of  song  than  any  vision  of  ambition.  "  How 
hollow,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Hemans,  in  one  of  her  letters, 
"  how  hollow  seems  the  voice  of  Fame  to  an  orphan  !" 
There  is  something,  too,  that  frequently  chills  all 
glow  of  thought  in  the  very  idea  of  the  public.  Com- 
pare the  spontaneous  letter  with  the  long  considered  arti- 
cle ;  the  versatile  chat,  full  of  individuality,  with  the 
monotonous  dissertation  so  very  scholar-like  in  style  as 
to  be  attributed  with  equal  reason,  to  fifty  different  wri- 
ters. There  is  a  certain  etiquette,  which  every  gentle- 
man observes  in  a  promiscuous  assembly,  that  often 
effectually  conceals  his  most  interesting  points  of  charac- 
ter, and  identifies  him  with  the  multitude.  A  similar 
rule  obtains  in  literature.  To  address  the  great  mass 
with  whom  we  have  no  intimate  association,  often  seems 
a  presumptuous  or  hopeless  effort,  and  veneration  for  the 


292 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


select  yet  equally  unknown  few,  will  daunt  or  formalize 
endeavour.  But  it  is  not  a  wearisome  task  to  charm 
minds  with  whose  tastes  we  are  intimate,  to  enliven 
hearts  that  are  devoted  to  our  welfare,  to  delight  a  circle 
with  which  we  are  allied  by  the  ties  of  old  acquaintance 
and  warm  regard.    One  of  our  poets  has  written  : 

"Friends  my  soul  with  joy  remembers, 
How  like  quivering  flames  they  start, 
When  I  fan  the  living  embers 

On  the  hearth-stone  of  my  heart." 

Drake  was  an  interesting-  example  of  the  fostering  in- 
fluence of  happy  associations.  Without  these  it  may  be 
doubted  if  he  would  ever  have  become  known  to  fame. 
His  was  one  of  those  gentle  natures  that,  from  a  divine 
instinct,  concentrate  their  sources  of  happiness.  He  had 
no  faith  in  that  coarser  philosophy  which  stakes  life's 
dearest  hopes  on  the  broad  arena  of  the  world.  Familiar 
with  the  true  inheritors  of  literary  glory,  he  never  could 
mistake  temporary  reputation  for  enduring  fame.  His 
taste  was  too  refined,  and  his  standard  of  excellence  too 
exalted,  to  permit  him  to  feel  any  complacency  in  regard 
to  his  own  effusions.  To  domestic  and  social  pleasures 
he  looked  for  enjoyment,  and  poetry  was  chiefly  valued 
as  imparting  to  these  new  grace  and  sprightliness.  It 
was  only  by  degrees  that  the  inquisitive  public  discovered 
m  Drake  the  author  of  those  spirited  local  poems,  which, 
under  the  signature  of  Croaker,  imparted  such  attraction 
to  the  newspapers  of  the  day.  Indeed,  the  truth  was  re- 
vealed, as  the  secrets  of  more  lucrative  trades  often  are, 
Dy  the  hazardous  experiment  of  taking  a  partner.  It 
was  soon  discovered  that  the  mysterious  "  Co."  was  no 
other  than  Halleck,  and  thence  his  friend's  agency  was 
easily  inferred.  This  modest  spirit  was  equally  mani- 
fested by  the  poet  during  his  last  illness,  when  he  exhib- 
ited perfect  indifference  as  to  the  fate  of  his  writings,  and 


DRAKE. 


293 


obviously  held  them  in  very  light  estimation.  The  Cul- 
prit Fay  for  a  long  period  only  existed  in  manuscript, 
and  was  not  printed  until  several  years  after  the  author's 
death.  Indeed,  he  infinitely  preferred  love  to  admira- 
tion. The  society  and  affection  of  his  friends,  was  too 
precious  to  be  weighed  in  the  balance  with  renown.  His 
brief  career  was  devoted  to  his  profession  and  the  care  of 
his  family ;  and  his  recreations  sought  in  literature  and 
the  companionship  of  a  few  kindred  minds.  When  he 
returned  from  Louisiana  in  his  twenty-sixth  year,  and 
found  the  disease  on  account  of  which  he  had  made  the 
voyage,  wholly  unalleviated,  he  became  more  than  ever 
devoted,  until  his  decease,  which  soon  occurred,  to  these 
familiar  and  cherished  resources.  Drake's  character 
must  have  been  peculiarly  endearing.  His  mental  gifts 
alone  would  excite  strong  interest,  but  unallied,  as  they 
seem  to  have  been,  with  ambition,  how  greatly  their 
attraction  was  enhanced  !  Talent,  which  is  absolutely 
given  to  personal  objects,  claims  no  suffrages  from  the 
heart ;  but  the  man  of  superior  gifts,  who  voluntarily 
offers  them  at  the  altar  of  disinterested  affection,  cannot 
but  win  permanent  and  deep  regard.  Accordingly,  the 
author  of  the  Culprit  Fay,  young  as  he  was,  left  a 
memory  consecrated  by  the  most  tender  regret.  His 
cultivated  taste  gave  an  uncommon  value  to  his  literary 
opinions;  his  graceful  humour  threw  a  rare  charm 
around  the  fireside,  and  his  beautiful  'imagination 
hallowed  the  scenes  of  nature.  Haileck's  tribute  is  elo- 
quent from  its  very  simplicity.  Earnest  indeed,  must 
have  been  the  grief  which  thus  silenced  a  harp  so  often 
struck  in  unison  with  that  of  the  departed : 

"  Wliere  hearts,  whose  truth  is  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  wcild  their  worth. 

17* 


294 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


"  And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 
Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine. 

"  It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 
Around  thy  faded  brow, 
But  Fve  in  vain  essayed  it, 
And  fed  I  cannot  now." 

The  miscellaneous  poems  of  Drake  are  few.  They 
indicate  power  of  language  and  strong  feeling,  but  there 
is  nothing  particularly  characteristic  about  them.  Leon 
is  a  promising  fragment,  with  some  very  happy  descrip- 
tive touches.  The  change  which  grief  occasions  in 
beauty,  is  thus  strikingly  portrayed : 

"  But  he  who  casts  his  gaze  upon  her  now. 
And  reads  the  traces  written  on  her  brow, 
Had  scarce  believed  her's  was  that  form  of  light 
That  beamed  like  fabled  wonder  on  the  sight ; 
Her  raven  hair  hung  down  in  loosened  tress 
Before  her  wan  cheek's  pallid  ghastliness ; 
And,  thro'  its  thick  locks,  show'd  the  deadly  white, 
Like  marble  glimpses  of  a  tomb  at  night" 

The  last  phrase  in  the  following  lines  gives  an  excel- 
lent idea  of  a  kind  of  female  loveliness  almost  peculiar 
to  this  country  : 

"  With  so  much  graceful  sweetness  of  address, 
And  such  a  form  of  rounded  slenderness." 

Of  his  minor  poems,  the  "American  Flag"  is  the 
best  known.  It  is  remarkably  spirited,  although  some- 
what deformed  by  laboured  epithets.  The  fourth  stanza 
is  perhaps  the  best  and  as  glowing  an  effusion  of  patriot- 
ism as  may  be  readily  found  in  the  same  comnass  : 

"  Flag  of  the  seas  !  on  ocean  wave 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave  ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale,  , 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 


DRAKE. 


295 


And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  theey 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendours  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye." 

Let  us  turn  to  the  most  Original  of  Drake's  writings, 
that  on  which  his  fame  as  a  poet  chiefly  rests — "  The 
Culprit  Fay." 

Success  in  what  may  be  called  the  poetry  of  Fancy, 
is  comparatively  rare.  To  describe  what  powerfully  af- 
fects us  requires  command  of  language  and  imaginative 
power ;  but  the  chief  requisite  to  such  an  end  is  intense 
feeling.  Byron's  peculiar  energy  lay  almost  wholly  in 
this  single  attribute.  His  poetry  is  a  reflection  rather 
than  a  picture.  It  mirrors  the  struggles,  the  rapture,  and 
the  gloom,  within  his  own  heart ;  verse  is  the  crucible  in 
which  his  thoughts  and  emotions  are  fused  and  moulded 
into  words.  The  poetry  which  springs  from  pure  inven- 
tion, which  has  "  airy  nothing"  for  its  material,  and  suc- 
ceeds in  giving  to  this  a  "  local  habitation  and  a  name," 
implies  a  creative  faculty.  This  is  true  when  the  sub- 
ject illustrates  actual  life,  when  a  congruous  and  effec- 
tive tale  of  human  weal  or  sorrow  is  woven ;  but  it  is 
emphatically  true  when  the  subject  itself  has  no  prece- 
dent in  common  experience.  It  has  been  said  that  to 
transfuse  our  own  life  into  what  is  feigned,  is  the  preroga- 
tive of  genius  alone.  It  is  certainly  a  very  uncommon 
triumph  to  succeed  in  forming  a  consistent  narrative,  with 
ideal  personages  for  its  characters,  which  shall  powerfully 
interest  the  imagination,  and  at  the  same  time  satisfy  the 
judgment.  This  was  achieved  by  Drake  in  "  The  Culprit 
Fay."  It  borrows  just  enough  reality  from  the  natural 
world  to  make  its  fanciful  hero  seem  an  actual  being. 
Its  incidents  are  few,  but  their  details  are  so  felicitously 


296 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


conceived  that  interest  is  not  only  awakened  but  sustained. 
The  metre  is  admirably  varied.  There  are  two  or  three 
verbal  crudities,  but,  as  a  whole,  the  taste  and  spirit  in 
which  the  design  is  wrought  out  is  excellent.  Of  this 
class  of  poetry,  some  scenes  in  the  Midsummer's  Night's 
Dream,  and  the  description  of  Queen  Mab,  by  Mercutio, 
are  exquisite  specimens.  The  few  who  are  fitted  to  ex- 
cel as  fanciful  poets,  are  apt  to  fail  from  the  abstract  and 
cold  beauty  of  their  imagery,  or  the  elaborate  plan  of  the 
argument.  Shelley  was  a  remarkable  instance  in  point. 
His  w  Revolt  of  Islam"  abounds  in  pure  fancy,  but  there 
is  so  little  that  appeals  to  primal  sympathy,  that  most 
readers  wonder  at  his  genius  rather  than  love  its  crea- 
tions. A  sweet  atmosphere  borrowed  from  this  breathing 
world,  insensibly  blends  with  the  aerial  machinery  of 
"  The  Culprit  Fay.*'  His  sufferings  and  mortifications 
excite  compassion,  his  adventures  are  followed  with  keen 
curiosity,  and  his  success  hailed  with  delight :  and  this, 
notwithstanding  he  is  depicted  as  "  a  creature  of  the  ele- 
ment." This  ingenious  and  brilliant  production  originated 
in  a  discussion  which,  under  one  or  another  guise,  is 
constantly  renewed — the  poetical  capabilities  of  our  young 
republic.  It  was  argued  by  one  that  the  absence  of  ro- 
mantic associations,  and  the  time-hallowed  shrines  of  the 
Past,  rendered  this  country  an  inhospitable  home  for  the 
muses.  Another  suggested  that  our  history  was  too  re- 
cent to  furnish  impressive  themes  of  song.  Drake  main- 
tained that  genius -is  independent  of  time  and  place,  and 
that  the  poet,  from  the  rich  stores  of  his  own  invention, 
could  array  the  freshest  scene  with  grace  and  solemnity. 
But  this,  urged  his  opponent,  includes  the  necessity  of 
ideal  characters,  and  no  strong  human  interest  will  at- 
tach to  these.  The  poet  was  confident  of  the  principle 
upon  which  his  faith  was  based ;  and  he  determined  to 
convince  his  friends  by  experiment  instead  of  reasoning. 


DRAKE. 


297 


Centuries  hence,  perchance,  some  lover  of  "  The  Old 
American  Writers"  will  speculate  as  ardently  as  Monk- 
barns  himself,  about  the  site  of  Sleepy  Hollow.  Then 
the  Hudson  will  possess  a  classic  interest,  and  the  asso- 
ciations of  genius  and  patriotism  may  furnish  themes  to 
illustrate  its  matchless  scenery.  11  The  Culprit  Fay"  will 
then  be  quoted  with  enth  isiasm.  Imagination  is  a  per- 
verse faculty.  Why  should  the  ruins  of  a  feudal  castle 
add  enchantment  to  a  knoll  of  the  Catskills  ?  Are  not 
the  Palisades  more  ancient  than  the  aqueducts  of  the  Ro- 
man Campagna  ?  Can  bloody  tradition  or  superstitious 
legends  really  enhance  the  picturesque  impression  de- 
rived from  West  Point  ?  The  heart  forever  asserts  its 
claim.  Primeval  nature  is  often  coldly  grand  in  the  view 
of  one  who  loves  and  honours  his  race  ;  and  the  outward 
world  is  only  brought  near  to  his  spirit  when  linked  with 
human  love  and  suffering,  or  consecrated  by  heroism  and 
faith.  Yet,  if  there  ever  was  a  stream  romantic  in  itself, 
superior  from  its  own  wild  beauty,  to  all  extraneous 
charms,  it  is  the  Hudson.  Who  ever  sailed  between  its 
banks  and  scanned  its  jutting  headlands, — the  perpendicu- 
lar cliffs, — the  meadows  over  which  alternate  sunshine  and 
cloud, — umbrageous  woods,  masses  of  grey  rock,  dark  ce- 
dar groves,  bright  grain-fields,  tasteful  cottages,  and  fairy- 
like sails ;  who,  after  thus  feasting  both  sense  and  soul, 
through  a  summer  day,  has,  from  a  secluded  nook  of 
those  beautiful  shores,  watched  the  moon  rise  and  tip  the 
crystal  ripples  with  light,  and  not  echoed  the  appeal  of 
the  bard  ? 

"  Tell  me — where'er  thy  silver  bark  be  steering, 
By  bright  Italian  or  soft  Persian  lands, 
Or  o'er  those  island-studded  seas  careering, 

Whose  pearl-charged  waves  dissolve  on  coral  strands  : 
Tell  if  thou  visitest,  thou  heavenly  rover, 
A  lovelier  scene  than  this  the  wide  world  over  ?*'* 


*  Hoffman's  "  Moonlight  on  the  Hudson." 


218 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


It  was  w  tie  re 

"  The  moon  looks  down  on  old  Crow  Nest, 
And  mellows  the  shade  on  his  craggy  breast," 

that  Drake  laid  the  scene  of  his  poem.  The  story  is  of 
simple  construction.  The  fairies  are  called  together,  at 
this  chosen  hour,  not  to  join  in  dance  or  revel,  but  to  sit 
in  judgment  on  one  of  their  number  who  has  broken  his 
vestal  vow : 

"  He  has  loved  an  earthly  maid, 
And  left  for  her  his  woodland  shade ; 
He  has  lain  upon  her  lip  of  dew, 
And  sunn'd  him  in  her  eye  of  blue, 
Fann'd  her  cheek  with  his  wing  of  air, 
Play'd  in  the  ringlets  of  her  hair, 
And  nestling  on  her  snowy  breast, 
Forgot  the  lily-king's  behest." 

His  sentence  is  thus  pronounced  : 

"  Thou  shalt  seek  the  beach  of  sand, 
Where  the  water  bounds  the  elfin  land  ; 
Thou  shalt  watch  the  oozy  brine 
Till  the  sturgeon  leaps  in  the  bright  moonshine, 
Then  dart  the  glittering  arch  below, 
And  catch  a  drop  from  his  silver  bow." 
*  *  *  *  * 

"  If  the  spray-bead  gem  be  won, 

The  stain  of  thy  wing  is  wash'd  away, 

But  another  errand  must  be  done 
Ere  thy  crime  be  lost  for  aye  ; 

Thy  flame-wood  lamp  is  quench'd  and  dark, 

Thou  must  re-illume  its  spark  ; 

Mount  thy  steed,  and  spur  him  high 

To  the  heaven's  blue  canopy ; 

And  when  thou  see'st  a  shooting  star, 

Follow  it  fast  and  follow  it  far — 

The  last  faint  spark  of  its  burning  train 

Shall  light  thy  elfin  lamp  again." 

Evil  sprites,  both  of  the  air  and  water,  oppose  the  Fay- 
in  his  mission  of  penance.    He  is  sadly  baffled  and 


DRAKE. 


299 


tempted,  but  at  length  conquers  all  difficulties,  and  his 
triumphant  return  is  hailed  with  "  dance  and  song,  and 
lute  and  lyre." 

It  is  in  the  imagery  of  the  poem  that  Drake's  genius  is 
pre-eminent.  What,  for  instance,  can  be  more  ingenious 
that  the  ordeals  prescribed  had  any  "  spot  or  taint  "  in  his 
ladye-love  deepened  the  Fay's  sacrilege : 

"Tied  to  the  hornet's  shady  wings; 
Toss'd  on  the  pricks  of  nettles'  stings, 
Or  seven  long  ages  doom'd  to  dwell 
With  the  lazy  worm  in  the  walnut  shell ; 
Or  every  night  to  writhe  and  bleed 
Beneath  the  tread  of  the  centipede; 
Or  bound  in  a  cobweb  dungeon  dim, 
Your  jailer  a  spider  huge  and  grim, 
Amid  the  carrion  bodies  lie 

Of  the  worm,  and  the  bug,  and  the  murder'd  fly." 
Most  appropriate  tortures,  these,  for  a  fairy  inquisition  ! 
Even  without  the  metrical  accompaniment,  how  daintily 
conceived  are  all  the  appointments  of  the  fairies  !  Their 
lanterns  were  owlet's  eyes.  Some  of  them  repose  in 
cobweb  hammocks,  swinging,  perhaps,  on  tufted  spears  of 
grass,  and  rocked  by  the  zephyrs  of  a  midsummer  night. 
Others  make  their  beds  of  lichen-green,  pillowed  by  the 
breast-plumes  of  the  humming-bird.  A  few,  whose  taste 
for  upholstery  is  quite  magnificent,  find  a  couch  in  the 
purple  shade  of  the  four-o'clock,  or  the  little  niches  of 
rock  lined  with  dazzling  mica.  The  table  of  these  min- 
nikin  epicureans  is  a  mushroom,  whose  velvet  surface 
and  quaker  hue  make  it  a  very  respectable  festal  board  at 
which  to  drink  dew  from  buttercups.  The  king's  throne  is 
of  sassafras  and  spice-wood,  with  tortoise-shellpillars,  and 
crimson  tulip-leaves  for  drapery.  But  the  quaint  shifts 
and  beautiful  outfit  of  the  Culprit  himself,  comprise  the 
most  delectable  imagery  of  the  poem.  He  is  worn  out 
with  fatigue  and  chagrin  at  the  very  commencement  of 


300 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


his  journey,  and  therefore  makes  captive  of  a  spotted 
toad,  by  way  of  a  steed.  Having  bridled  her  with  silk- 
weed  twist,  his  progress  is  rapid  by  dint  of  lashing  her 
sides  with  an  osier  thong.  Arrived  at  the  beach,  he 
launches  fearlessly  upon  the  tide,  for  among  his  other 
accomplishments,  the  Fay  is  a  graceful  swimmer  ;  but  his 
tender  limbs  are  so  bruised  by  leeches,  starfish,  and  other 
watery  enemies,  that  he  is  soon  driven  back. 

The  materia  medica  of  Fairy-land  is  always  accessi- 
ble ;  and  cobweb  lint,  and  balsam  dew  of  sorrel  and  hen- 
bane, speedily  relieve  the  little  penitent's  wounds.  Hav- 
ing refreshed  himself  with  the  juice  of  the  calamus  root, 
he  returns  to  the  shore,  and  selects  a  neatly-shaped  mus- 
cle shell,  brightly  painted  without,  and  tinged  with  pearl 
within.  Nature  seemed  to  have  formed  it  expressly  for 
a  fairy  boat.  Having  notched  the  stern,  and  gathered  a 
colen  bell  to  bale  with,  he  sculls  into  the  midst  of  the  river, 
laughing  at  his  old  foes  as  they  grin  and  chatter  around 
his  way.  There,  in  the  sweet  moon-light,  he  sits  until 
a  sturgeon  comes  by,  and  leaps,  all  glistening,  into  the 
silvery  atmosphere  ;  then  balancing  his  delicate  frame 
upon  one  foot,  like  a  Lilliputian  Mercury,  he  lifts  the 
flowery  cup,  and  catches  the  one  sparkling  drop  that  is 
to  wash  the  stain  from  his  wing.  Gay  is  his  return 
voyage.  Sweet  nymphs  clasp  the  boat's  side  with  their 
tiny  hands,  and  cheerily  urge  it  onward.  His  next  en- 
terprise is  of  a  more  knightly  species  ;  and  he  proceeds 
to  array  himself  accordingly,  as  becomes  a  fairy  cavalier. 
His  acorn  helmet  is  plumed  with  thistle-down,  a  bee's 
nest  forms  his  corselet,  and  his  cloak  is  of  butterflies' 
wings.  With  a  lady-bug's  shell  for  a  shield,  and  wasp- 
sting  lance,  spurs  of  cockle-seed,  a  bow  made  of  vine- 
twig,  strung  with  maize-silk,  and  well  supplied  with  net- 
tle-shafts, he  mounts  his  fire-fly  Bucephalus,  and  waving 
his  blade  of  blue  grass,  speeds  upward  to  catch  a  "  glim- 


DRAKE. 


301 


mering  spark "  from  some  flying  meteor.  Again  the 
spirits  of  evil  are  let  loose  upon  him,  and  the  upper  ele- 
ments are  not  more  friendly  than  those  below.  Fays 
are  as  hardly  beset,  it  seems,  as  we  of  coarser  clay,  by 
temptations  in  a  feminine  shape.  A  sylphid  queen  of 
the  skies,  "  the  loveliest  of  the  forms  of  light,"  enchants 
the  wanderer  by  her  beauty  and  kindness.  But  though 
she  played  very  archly  with  the  butterfly  cloak,  and 
handled  the  tassel  of  his  blade  while  he  revealed  to  her 
pitying  ear  "the  dangers  he  had  passed,"  the  memory 
of  his  first  love  and  the  object  of  pilgrimage  kept  his 
heart  free.  Escorted  with  great  honour  by  the  sylph's 
lovely  train,  his  career  is  resumed,  and  his  flame-wood 
lamp  at  length  re-kindled,  and  before  the  "  sentry  elf" 
proclaims  "  a  streak  in  the  eastern  sky,"  the  Culprit  has 
been  welcomed  to  all  his  original  glory. 

It  will  be  observed  that  the  materials — the  costume,  as 
it  were — of  this  fairy  tale,  are  of  native  and  familiar  ori- 
gin. The  effect  is  certainly  quite  as  felicitous  as  that 
of  many  similar  productions  where  the  countless  flowers 
and  rich  legends  of  the  East,  furnish  the  poet  with  an  ex- 
haustless  mine  of  pleasing  images.  It  has  been  remarked 
that  the  dolphin  and  flying-fish  are  the  only  poetical 
members  of  the  finny  tribes ;  but  who,  after  reading  the 
Culprit  Fay,  will  ever  hear  the  plash  of  a  sturgeon  in  the 
moonlit  water,  without  recalling  the  genius  of  Drake  ? 
Indeed,  the  poem  which  we  have  thus  cursorily  examined 
is  one  of  those  happy  inventions  of  fancy,  superinduced, 
upon  fact,  which  afford  unalloyed  delight.  There  are 
various  tastes  as  regard  the  style  and  spirit  of  different 
bards  ;  but  no  one,  having  the  slightest  perception,  will 
fail  to  realize  at  once  that  the  Culprit  Fay  is  a  genuine 
poem.  This  is,  perhaps,  the  highest  of  praise.  The 
mass  of  versified  compositions  are  not  strictly  poems. 
Here  and  there  only  the  purely  ideal  is  apparent.  A 


302 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


series  of  poetical  fragments  are  linked  by  rhymes  to  other 
and  larger  portions  of  common-place  and  prosaic  ideas. 
It  is  with  the  former  as  with  moon-beams  falling 
through  dense  foliage — they  only  chequer  our  path  with 
light.  "  Poetry,1'  says  Campbell,  "  should  come  to  us 
in  masses  of  ore,  that  require  little  sifting."  The  poem 
before  us  obeys  this  important  rule.  It  is  "  of  imagina- 
tion all  compact."  It  takes  us  completely  away  from  the 
dull  level  of  ordinary  associations.  As  the  portico  of 
some  beautiful  temple,  through  it  we  are  introduced  into 
a  scene  of  calm  delight,  where  Fancy  asserts  her  joyous 
supremacy,  and  woos  us  to'  forgetfulness  of  all  outward 
evil,  and  to  fresh  recognition  of  the  lovely  in  Nature  and 
the  graceful  and  gifted  in  humanity. 


BRYANT. 


It  has  been  well  observed  by  an  English  critic  that 
Poetry  is  not  a  branch  of  authorship.  The  vain  en- 
deavour to  pervert  its  divine  and  spontaneous  agency  into 
a  literary  craft,  is  the  great  secret  of  its  recent  decline. 
Poetry  is  the  overflowing  of  the  soul.  It  is  the  record  of 
what  is  best  in  the  world.  No  product  of  the  human 
mind  is  more  disinterested.  Hence  comparatively  few 
keep  the  poetic  element  alive  beyond  the  period  of  early 
youth.  All  that  is  sfenuine  in  the  art  springs  from  vivid 
experience,  and  life  seldom  retains  any  novel  aspect  to 
those  who  have  long  mingled  in  its  scenes  and  staked 
upon  its  chances.  A  celebrated  artist  of  our  day,  when 
asked  the  process  by  which  his  delineations  were  ren- 
dered so  effective,  replied,  that  he  drew  them  altogether 
from  memory.  Natural  objects  were  portrayed  not  as 
they  impressed  him  at  the  moment,  but  according  to  the 
lively  and  feeling  phases  in  which  they  struck  his  senses 
in  boyhood.  For  this  reason  it  has  been  truly  observed, 
that  remembrance  makes  the  poet,  and  that  emotions  re- 
collected in  tranquillity  form  the  true  source  of  inspira- 
tion. A  species  of  literature  depending  upon  conditions 
so  delicate  is  obviously  not  to  be  successfully  cultivated 
by  those  who  hold  it  in  no  reverence.  The  Great  dis- 
tinction between  verse-writers  and  poets  is  that  the  former 
seek  and  the  latter  receive ;  the  one  attempt  to  command, 
the  other  meekly  obey  the  higher  impulses  of  their  being. 


304 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


The  first  thought  which  suggests  itself  in  regard  to  Bry- 
ant, is  his  respect  for  the  art  which  he  has  so  nobly  illus- 
trated. This  is  not  less  commendable  than  rare.  Such 
an  impatient  spirit  of  utility  prevails  in  our  country,  that 
even  men  of  ideal  pursuits  are  often  infected  by  it.  It  is 
a  leading  article  in  the  Yankee  creed,  to  turn  every  en- 
dowment to  account:  and  although  a  poet  is  generally 
left  "  to  chew  the  cud  of  sweet  and  bitter  fancies,"  as  he 
lists,  occasions  are  not  infrequent  when  even  his  services 
are  available.  Caliban's  lowly  toil  will  not  supply  all 
needs.  The  more  M  gentle  spriting  "  of  Ariel  is  some- 
times desired.  To  subserve  the  objects  of  party,  to 
acquire  a  reputation  upon  which  office  may  be  sought, 
and  to  gratify  personal  ambition,  the  American  poet  is 
often  tempted  to  sacrifice  his  true  fame  and  the  dignity  of 
Art  to  the  demands  of  Occasion.  To  this  weakness  Bry- 
ant has  been  almost  invariably  superior.  He  has  pre- 
served the  elevation  which  he  so  early  acquired.  He  has 
been  loyal  to  the  Muses.  At  their  shrine  his  ministry 
seems  ever  free  and  sacred,  wholly  apart  from  the  ordi- 
nary associations  of  life.  With  a  pure  heart  and  a  lofty 
purpose,  has  he  hymned  the  glory  of  Nature  and  the  praise 
of  Freedom.  To  this  we  cannot  but,  in  a  great  degree, 
ascribe  the  serene  beauty  of  his  verse.  The  mists  of 
worldly  motives  dim  the  clearest  vision,  and  the  sweetest 
voice  falters  amid  the  strife  of  passion.  As  the  patriarch 
went  forth  alone  to  muse  at  eventide,  the  reveries  of 
genius  have  been  to  Bryant,  holy  and  private  seasons. 
They  are  as  unstained  by  the  passing  clouds  of  this 
troubled  existence,  as  the  skies  of  his  own  "  Prairies  "  by 
village  smoke. 

Thus  it  should  be,  indeed,  with  all  poets  ;  but  we  deem 
it  singularly  happy  when  it  is  so  with  our  own.  The  ten- 
dency of  all  action  and  feeling  with  us,  is  so  much  the 
reverse  of  poetical,  that  only  the  high,  sustained  and  con- 


BRYANT. 


305 


sistent  development  of  the  imagination,  would  command 
attention  or  exert  influence.  The  poet  in  this  republic, 
does  not  address  ignorance.  In  truth,  the  great  obstacle 
with  which  he  has  to  deal,  so  to  speak,  is  intelligence. 
It  is  not  the  love  of  gain  and  physical  comfort  alone,  that 
deadens  the  finer  perceptions  of  our  people.  Among  the 
highly  educated  there  is  less  real  enjoyment  of  poetry 
than  is  discovered  by  those  to  whom  reading  is  almost  a 
solitary  luxury.  No  conformity  to  fashion  or  affectation 
of  taste  influence  the  latter.  They  seek  the  world  of 
imagination  and  sentiment,  with  the  greater  delight  from 
the  limited  satisfaction  realized  in  their  actual  lot.  To 
them  Poetry  is  a  great  teacher  of  self-respect.  It  unfolds 
to  them  emotions  familiar  to  their  own  bosoms.  It  cele- 
brates scenes  of  beauty  amid  which  they  also  are  free  to 
wander.  It  vindicates  capacities  and  a  destiny  of  which 
they  partake.  Intimations  like  these  are  seldom  found  in 
their  experience,  and  for  this  reason, — cherished  and  hal- 
lowed associations  endear  an  art  which  consoles  while  it 
brings  innocent  pleasure  to  their  hearts.  It  is,  therefore 
in  what  is  termed  society,  that  the  greatest  barriers  to 
poetic  sympathy  exist,  and  it  is  precisely  here  that  it  is 
most  desirable,  the  bard  should  be  heard.  But  the  idea 
of  culture  with  this  class  lies  almost  exclusively  in 
knowledge.  They  aim  at  understanding  every  question, 
are  pertinacious  on  the  score  of  opinion,  and  would  blush 
to  be  thought  unacquainted  with  a  hundred  subjects  with 
which  they  have  not  a  particle  of  sympathy.  The  wis- 
dom of  loving,  even  without  comprehending;  the  revela- 
tions obtained  only  through  feeling-;  the  veneration  that 
awes  curiosity  by  exalted  sentiment — all  this  is  to  them 
unknown.  Life  never  seems  miraculous  to  their  minds, 
Nature  wears  a  monotonous  aspect,  and  routine  gradually 
congeals  their  sensibilities.  To  invade  this  vegetative 
existence  is  the  poets  vocation.  Hazlitt  says  all  that  is 
18 


306 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


worth  remembering  in  life  is  the  poetry  of  it.  If  so, 
habits  wholly  prosaic  are  as  alien  to  wisdom  as  to  enjoy- 
ment ;  and  the  elevated  manner  in  which  Bryant  has  uni- 
formly presented  the  claims  of  poetry,  the  tranquil 
eloquence  with  which  his  chaste  and  serious  muse  ap- 
peals to  the  heart,  deserve  the  most  grateful  recognition. 
There  is  something  accordant  with  the  genius  of  our 
country,  in  the  mingled  clearness  and  depth  of  his  poetry. 
The  glow  of  unbridled  passion  seems  peculiarly  to  be- 
long to  southern  lands  where  despotism  blights  personal 
effort,  and  makes  the  ardent  pursuit  of  pleasure  almost  a 
necessity.  The  ancient  communities  of  northern  lati- 
tudes have  rich  literatures  from  whence  to  draw  materials 
for  their  verse.  But  here,  where  Nature  is  so  magnifi- 
cent, and  civil  institutions  so  fresh,  where  the  experiment 
of  Republicanism  is  going  on,  and  each  individual  must 
think  if -he  do  not  work,  Poetry,  to  illustrate  the  age  and 
reach  its  sympathies,  should  be  thoughtful  and  vigorous. 
It  should  minister  to  no  weak  sentiment,  but  foster 
high,  manly  and  serious  views.  It  should  identify 
itself  with  the  domestic  affections,  and  tend  to  solemnize 
rather  than  merely  adorn  existence.  Such  are  the 
natural  echoes  of  American  life,  and  they  characterize 
the  poetry  of  Bryant. 

Bryant's  love  of  Nature  gives  the  prevailing  spirit  to 
his  poetry.  The  feeling  with  him  seems  quite  instinc- 
tive. It  is  not  sustained  by  a  metaphysical  theory  as  in 
the  case  of  Wordsworth,  while  it  is  imbued  with  more 
depth  of  pathos  than  is  often  discernible  in  Thomson. 
The  feeling  with  which  he  looks  upon  the  wonders  of 
Creation  is  remarkably  appropriate  to  the  scenery  of  the 
New  World.  His  poems  convey,  to  an  extraordinary 
degree,  the  actual  impression  which  is  awakened  by  our 
lakes,  mountains,  and  forests.  There  is  in  the  landscape 
of  every  country  something  characteristic  and  peculiar 


BRYANT. 


307 


The  individual  objects  may  be  the  same,  but  their  com- 
bination is  widely  different.  The  lucent  atmosphere  of 
Switzerland,  the  grouping  of  her  mountains,  the  effect  of 
glacier  and  waterfall,  of  peaks  clad  in  eternal  snow,  im- 
pending over  valleys  whose  emerald  herbage  and  peace- 
ful flocks  realize  our  sweetest  dreams  of  primeval  life — 
all  strike  the  eye  and  afTect  the  mind  in  a  manner  some- 
what different  from  similar  scenes  in  other  lands.  The 
long,  pencilled  clouds  of  an  Italian  sunset — glowing 
above  plains  covered  with  brightly-tinted  vegetation, 
seem  altogether  more  placid  and  luxuriant  than  the  gor- 
geous masses  of  golden  vapour,  towering  in  our  western 
sky  at  the  close  of  an  autumnal  day.  These  and  innu- 
merable other  minute  features  are  not  only  perceived  but 
intimately  felt  by  the  genuine  poet.  We  esteem  it  one 
of  Bryant's  great  merits  that  he  has  not  only  faithfully 
pictured  the  beauties,  but  caught  the  very  spirit  of  our 
scenery.  His  best  poems  have  an  anthem-like  cadence, 
which  accords  with  the  vast  scenes  they  celebrate.  He 
approaches  the  mighty  forest,  whose  shadowy  haunts  only 
the  footsteps  of  the  Indian  has  penetrated,  deeply  con- 
scious of  its  virgin  grandeur.  His  harp  is  strung  in 
harmony  with  the  wild  moan  of  the  ancient  boughs. 
Every  moss-covered  trunk  breathes  to  him  of  the  myste- 
ries of  Time,  and  each  wild  flower  which  lifts  its  pale 
buds  above  the  brown  and  withered  leaves,  whispers  some 
thought  of  gentleness.  We  feel,  when  musing  with  him 
amid  the  solitary  woods,  as  if  blessed  with  a  companion 
peculiarly  fitted  to  interpret  their  teachings ;  and  while 
intent  in  our  retirement  upon  his  page,  we  are  sensible 
as  it  were,  of  the  presence  of  those  sylvan  monarchs  that 
crown  the  hill-tops  and  grace  the  valleys  of  our  native 
land.  No  English  park  formalised  by  the  hand  of  Art, 
no  legendary  spot  like  the  pine  grove  of  Ravenna,  sur- 
rounds us.    It  is  not  the  gloomy  German  forest  with  its 


308 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


phantoms  and  banditti,  but  one  of  those  primal,  dense 
woodlands  of  America,  where  the  oak  spreads  its  enor- 
mous branches,  and  the  frost-kindled  leaves  of  the  maple, 
glow  like  flame  in  the  sunshine  ;  where  the  tap  of  the 
woodpecker  and  the  whirring  of  the  partridge  alone 
break  the  silence  that  broods,  like  the  spirit  of  prayer, 
amid  the  interminable  aisles  of  the  verdant  sanctuary. 
Any  reader  of  Bryant,  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean, 
gifted  with  a  small  degree  of  sensibility  and  imagination, 
may  derive  from  his  poems  the  very  awe  and  delight 
with  which  the  first  view  of  one  of  our  majestic  forests 
would  strike  his  mind. 

The  kind  of  interest  with  which  Bryant  regards  Na- 
ture is  common  to  the  majority  of  minds  in  which  a  love 
of  beauty  is  blended  with  reverence.  This  in  some  mea- 
sure accounts  for  his  popularity.  Many  readers,  even  of 
poetical  taste,  are  repelled  by  the  very  vehemence  and 
intensity  of  Byron.  They  cannot  abandon  themselves  so 
utterly  to  the  influences  of  the  outward  world,  as  to  feel 
the  waves  bound  beneath  them  "  like  a  steed  that  knows 
his  rider ;"  nor  will  their  enthusiasm  so  far  annihilate 
consciousness  as  to  make  them  "  a  portion  of  the  tem- 
pest." Another  order  of  imaginative  spirits  do  not  greatly 
affect  the  author  of  the  Excursion  from  the  frequent  bald- 
ness of  his  conceptions ;  and  not  a  few  are  unable  to  see 
the  Universe  through  the  spectacles  of  his  philosophy. 
To  such  individuals  the  tranquil  delight  with  which  the 
American  poet  expatiates  upon  the  beauties  of  Creation  is 
perfectly  genial.  There  is  no  mystical  lore  in  the  tributes 
of  his  muse.  All  is  clear,  earnest  and  thoughtful.  In- 
deed, the  same  difference  that  exists  between  true-hearted, 
natural  affection,  and  the  metaphysical  love  of  the  Pla- 
tonists,  may  be  traced  between  the  manly  and  sincere 
lays  of  Bryant  and  the  vague  and  artificial  effusions  of 
transcendental  bards.    The  former  realize  the  definition 


BRYANT. 


309 


of  a  poet  which  describes  him  as  superior  to  the  multitude 
only  in  degree,  not  in  kind.  He  is  the  priest  of  a  uni- 
versal religion ;  and  clothes  in  appropriate  and  harmo- 
nious language  sentiments,  warmly  felt  and  cherished. 
He  requires  no  interpreter.  There  is  nothing  eccentric 
in  his  vision.  Like  all  human  beings  the  burden  of  daily 
toil  sometimes  weighs  heavily  on  his  soul ;  the  noisy  ac- 
tivity of  common  life  becomes  hopeless ;  scenes  of  inhu- 
manity, error,  and  suffering  grow  oppressive,  or  more 
personal  causes  of  despondency  make  "  the  grasshopper 
a  burden."  Then  he  turns  to  the  quietude  and  beauty 
of  Nature  for  refreshment.  There  he  loves  to  read  the 
fresh  tokens  of  creative  beneficence.  The  scented  air  of 
the  meadows  cools  his  fevered  brow.  The  umbrageous 
foliage  sways  benignly  around  him.  Vast  prospects  ex- 
pand his  thoughts  beyond  the  narrow  circle  of  worldly 
anxieties.  The  limpid  stream  upon  whose  banks  he 
wandered  in  childhood,  reflects  each  fleecy  cloud  and 
soothes  his  heart  as  the  emblem  of  eternal  peace.  Thus 
faith  is  revived  ;  the  soul  acquires  renewed  vitality,  and 
the  spirit  of  love  is  kindled  again  at  the  altar  of  God. 
Such  views  of  Nature  are  perfectly  accordant  with  the 
better  impulses  of  the  heart.  There  is  nothing  in  them 
strained,  unintelligible  or  morbid.  They  are  more  or  less 
familiar  to  all,  and  are  as  healthful  overflowings  of  our 
nature  as  the  prayer  of  repentance  or  the  song  of  thanks- 
giving. They  distinguish  the  poetry  of  Bryant  and 
form  one  of  its  dominant  charms.  Let  us  quote  a  few 
illustrations : 

"  I've  tried  the  world — it  wears  no  more 
The  colouring  of  romance  it  wore. 
Yet  well  has  Nature  kept  the  truth 
She  promised  to  my  ear  iest  youth. 
The  radiant  beauty  shed  abroad 
On  all  the  glorious  works  of  God, 
Shows  frankly  to  my  sobered  eye 
Each  charm  it  wore  in  days  gone  by. 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


"  To  him  who,  in  the  love  of  Nature,  holds 
Communion  with  her  visible  forms,  she  speaks 
A  various  language  ;  for  his  gayer  hours 
She  has  a  voice  of  gladness,  and  a  smile 
And  eloquence  of  beauty,  and  she  glides 
Into  his  darker  musings  with  a  mild 
And  healing  sympathy,  that  steals  away 
Their  sharpness,  ere  he  is  aware. 

*  *  *  * 

....  Then  the  chant 
Of  birds,  and  chime  of  brooks,  and  soft  caress 
Of  the  fresh  sylvan  air,  made  me  forget 
The  thoughts  that  broke  my  peace,  and  I  began 
To  gather  simples  by  the  fountain's  brink, 
And  lose  myself  in  day-dreams.    While  I  stood 
In  Nature's  loneliness,  I  was  with  one 
With  whom  I  daily  grew  familiar,  one 
Who  never  had  a  frown  for  me,  whose  voice 
Never  rebuked  me  for  the  hours  I  stole 
From  cares  I  loved  not,  but  of  which  the  world 
Deems  highest,  to  converse  with  her  ;  when  shrieked 
The  bleak  November  winds,  and  smote  the  woods, 
And  the  brown  fields  were  herbless,  and  the  shades 
That  met  above  the  merry  rivulet, 
Were  spoiled,  I  sought,  I  loved  them  still — they  seemed 
Like  old  companions  in  adversity. 

*  *  *  *  * 

"  Stranger,  if  thou  hast  learned  a  truth  which  needs 
No  school  of  long  experience,  that  the  world 
Is  full  of  guilt  and  misery,  and  hast  seen 
Enough  of  all  its  sorrows,  crimes  and  cares, 
To  tire  thee  of  it,  enter  this  wild  wood, 
And  view  the  haunts  of  Nature.    The  calm  shade 
Shall  bring  a  kindred  calm,  and  the  sweet  breeze, 
That  makes  the  green  leaves  dance,  shall  waft  a  balm 
To  thy  sick  heart.    Thou  wilt  find  nothing  here, 
Of  all  that  pained  thee  in  the  haunts  of  men, 
And  made  thee  loathe  thy  life." 

Nothing  quickens  the  perceptions  like  genuine  love. 
From  the  humblest  professional  attachment  to  the  most 
chivalric  devotion,  what  keenness  of  observation  is  bom 
under  the  influence  of  that  feeling  which  drives  away  the 


BRYANT. 


311 


obscuring  clouds  of  selfishness,  as  the  sun  consumes  the 
vapour  of  the  morning  !    I  never  knew  what  varied  asso- 
ciations could  environ  a  shell-fish,  until  I  heard  an  old 
oyster-merchant  discourse  of  its  qualities  ;  and  a  lands- 
man can  have  no  conception  of  the  fondness  a  ship  may 
inspire,  before  he  listens,  on  a  moonlight  night,  amid  the 
lonely  sea,  to  the  details  of  her  build  and  workings,  un- 
folded by  a  complacent  tar.    Mere  instinct  or  habit  will 
thus  make  the  rude  and  illiterate  see  with  better  eyes 
than  their  fellows.    When  a  human  object  commands 
such  interest,  how  quickly  does  affection  detect  every 
change  of  mood  and  incipient  want — reading  the  coun- 
tenance as  if  it  were  the  very  chart  of  destiny  !  And 
it  is  so  with  the  lover  of  Nature.     By  virtue  of  his 
love  comes  the   vision,  if  not  "  the   faculty  divine." 
Objects  and  similitudes  seen  heedlessly  by  others,  or 
passed    unnoticed,    are   stamped    upon    his  memory. 
Bryant  is  a  graphic  poet,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word. 
He  has  little  of  the  excessive  detail  of  Street,  or  the 
homely  exactitude  of  Crabbe.    His   touches,  like  his 
themes,  are  usually  on  a  grander  scale,  yet  the  minute  is 
by  no  means  neglected.    It  is  his  peculiar  merit  to  deal 
with  it  wisely.    Enough  is  suggested  to  convey  a  strong 
impression,  and  often  by  the  introduction  of  a  single  cir- 
cumstance, the  mind  is  instantly  enabled  to  complete  the 
picture.    It  is  difficult  to  select  examples  of  his  power  in 
this  regard.    The    following  scene  from  "  A  Winter 
Piece"  is  as  picturesque  as  it  is  true  to  fact : 
....  Come,  when  the  rains 
Have  glazed  the  snow,  and  clothed  the  trees  with  ice ; 
While  the  slant  sun  of  February  pours 
Into  the  bowers,  a  flood  of  light.    Approach  ; 
The  incrusted  surface  shall  upbear  thy  steps, 
And  the  broad,  arching  portals  of  the  grove 
Welcome  thy  entering.    Look  !  the  massy  trunks 
Are  cased  in  the  pure  crystal ;  each  light  spray, 
Nodding  and  tinkling  in  the  breath  of  heaven,  . 
Is  studded  with  its  trembling  water-drops, 


312 


TIIOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


That  stream  with  rainbow  radiance  as  they  move. 
But  round  the  parent  stem,  the  long,  low  boughs 
Bend,  in  a  glittering  ring,  and  arbours  hide 
The  glassy  floor. 

.  .  .  Raise  thine  eye, — 
Thou  sees't  no  cavern  roof,  no  palace  vault ; 
There  the  blue  sky,  and  the  white  drifting  cloud 
Look  in.    Again  the  wildered  fancy  dreams 
Of  spouting  fountains  frozen  as  they  rose, 
And  fixed  with  all  their  branching  jets  in  air, 
And  all  their  sluices  sealed.    All,  all  is  light ; 
Light  without  shade.    But  all  shall  pass  away 
With  the  next  sun.    From  numberless  vast  trunks, 
Loosened,  the  cracking  ice  shall  make  a  sound 
Like  the  far  roar  of  rivers,  and  the  eve 
Shall  close  o'er  the  brown  woods  as  it  was  wont." 

As  instances  of  the  felicitous  blending  of  general 
with  particular  description,  take  the  following  : 

**  And  from  beneath  the  leaves  that  kept  them  dry, 
Flew  many  a  glittering  insect  here  and  there, 

And  darted  up  and  down  the  butterfly, 
That  seemed  a  living  blossom  of  the  air, 

The  flocks  came  scattering  from  the  thicket,  where 
Strolled  groups  of  damsels,  frolicsome  and  fair  ; 

The  farmer  swung  the  scythe,  or  turned  the  hay, 

And  Hwixt  the  heavy  swaths  the  children  were  at  play. 
***** 

....  These  shades 
Are  still  the  abode  of  gladness ;  the  thick  roof 
Of  green  and  stirring  branches  is  alive 
And  musical  with  birds,  that  sing  and  sport 
In  wantonness  and  spirit ;  while  below 
The  squii  rel  with  raised  paws  and  form  erect 

Chirps  merrily.    .    .  . 

***** 

The  massy  rocks  themselves 
And  the  old  and  ponderous  trunks  of  prostrate  trees 
That  lead  from  knoll  to  knoll  a  causeway  rude, 
Or  bridge  the  sunken  brook,  and  their  dark  roots, 
With  all  their  earth  upon  them,  twisting  high, 
Breathe  fixed  tranquillity.    The  rivulet 
Sends  forth  glad  sounds,  and  tripping  o'er  its  bed, 


BRYANT. 


313 


Of  pebbly  sand,  or  leaping  down  the  rocks, 
Seems  with  continuous  laughter  to  rejoice 
In  its  own  being.    Softly  tread  the  marge, 
Lest  from  its  midway  perch  thou  scare  the  wren 
That  dips  her  bill  in  water" 

Bryant  is  eminently  a  contemplative  poet.  His 
thoughts  are  not  less  impressive  than  his  imagery.  Sen- 
timent, except  that  which  springs  from  benevolence  and 
veneration,  seldom  lends  a  glow  to  his  pages.  Indeed, 
there  is  a  remarkable  absence  of  those  spontaneous 
bursts  of  tenderness  and  passion,  which  constitute  the 
very  essence  of  a  large  portion  of  modern  verse.  He 
has  none  of  the  spirit  of  Campbell,  or  the  narrative 
sprightliness  of  Scott.  The  few  humorous  attempts  he 
has  published  are  unworthy  of  his  genius.  Love  is 
merely  recognized  in  his  poems  ;  it  rarely  forms  the  sta- 
ple of  any  composition.  His  strength  obviously  consists 
in  description  and  philosophy.  It  is  one  advantage  of 
this  species  of  poetry  that  it  survives  youth,  and  is  by 
nature,  progressive.  Bryant's  recent  poems  are  fully 
equal  if  not  superior  to  any  he  has  written.  With  his 
inimitable  pictures  there  is  ever  blended  high  speculation, 
or  a  reflective  strain  of  moral  comment.  Some  elevat- 
ing inference  or  cheering  truth  is  elicited  from  every 
scene  consecrated  by  his  muse.  A  noble  simplicity  ot 
language,  combined  with  these  traits,  often  leads  to  the 
most  genuine  sublimity  of  expression.  Some  of  his 
lines  are  unsurpassed  in  this  respect.  They  so  quietly 
unfold  a  great  thought  or  magnificent  image,  that  we  are 
often  taken  by  surprise.  What  a  striking  sense  of  mor- 
tality is  afforded  by  the  idea, — 

«  The  oak 

Shall  send  his  roots  abroad  and  pierce  thy  mould." 

How  grand  the  figure  which  represents  the  evening 
air,  as 

IB* 


314 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


*  God's  blessing  breathed  upon  the  fainting  earth." 

In  the  same  poem  he  compares 

"  The  gentle  souls  that  passed  away," 

to  the  twilight  breezes  sweeping  over  a  churchyard, — 

"  Sent  forth  from  heaven  among  the  sons  of  men," 
And  gone  into  the  boundless  heaven  again." 

And  what  can  be  more  suggestive  of  the  power  of  the 
winds,  than  the  figure  by  which  they  are  said  to 
"  Scoop  the  ocean  to  its  briny  springs"  ? — 

He  would  make  us  feel  the  hoary  age  of  the  mossy 
and  gigantic  forest- trees,  and  not  only  alludes  to  their 
annual  decay  and  renewal,  but  significantly  adds, 

"  The  century-living  crow 
Whose  birth  was  in  their  tops,  grew  old  and  died." 

To  those  who  have  never  seen  a  Prairie,  how  vividly 
does  one  spread  before  the  imagination,  in  the  very  open- 
ing of  the  poem  devoted  to  those  "  verdant  wastes 

"  There  are  the  gardens  of  the  desert,  these 

The  unshorn  fields  boundless  and  beautiful, 

For  which  the  speech  of  England  has  no  name — 

The  Prairies — I  behold  them  for  the  first, 

And  my  heart  swells,  while  the  dilated  sight 

Takes  in  the  encircling  vastness.    So  they  stretch 

In  airy  undulations  far  away, 

As  if  the  ocean  in  his  gentlest  swell, 

Stood  still  with  all  his  rounded  billows  fixed 

And  motionless  for  ever.    Motionless  ? 

No — they  are  all  unchained  again.    The  clouds 

Sweep  over  with  their  shadows,  and  beneath, 

The  surface  rolls  and  fluctuates  to  the  eye ; 

Dark  hollows  seem  to  glide  along  and  chase 

The  sunny  ridges." 

He  speaks  of  the  beaver  as  rearing"  his  little  Venice 
and  the  lonely  place  where  the  murdered  traveller  met  his 
doom,  is  indicated  in  a  brief  stanza  : 


BR  V  ANT. 


315 


The  red-bird  warbled  as  he  wrought 

His  hanging  nest  o'erhead, 
And  fearless  near  the  fatal  spot 

Her  young  the  partridge  led." 

The  unconscious  flight  of  time,  as  years  advance,  is 
finely  illustrated  thus  : 

"  Slow  pass  our  days 
In  childhood,  and  the  hours  of  light  are  long 
Betwixt  the  morn  and  eve  ;  with  swifter  lapse 
They  glide  in  manhood,  and  in  age  they  fly  ; 
Till  days  and  seasons  flit  before  the  mind 
As  flit  the  snow  flakes  in  a  winter's  storm. 
Seen  rather  than  distinguished" 

We  are  made  to  realize  the  antiquity  of  Freedom  by  a 
single  expression  : 

 "  thou  didst  tread 

The  earliest  furrows  on  the  mountain  side, 
Soft  with  the  deluge." 

The  progress  of  Science  is  admirably  hinted  in  a  line 
of  "  The  Ages,"  when  man  is  said  to 

"  Unwind  the  eternal  dances  of  the  sky." 

Instances  like  these  might  be  multiplied  at  pleasure,  to 
illustrate  the  efficacy  of  simple  diction,  and  to  prove  that 
the  elements  of  real  poetry  consist  in  truly  grand  ideas, 
uttered  without  affectation,  and  in  a  reverent  and  earnest 
spirit. 

A  beautiful  calm  like  that  which  rests  on  the  noble 
works  of  the  sculptor,  breathes  from  the  harp  of  Bryant. 
He  traces  a  natural  phenomenon,  or  writes  in  melodious 
numbers,  the  history  of  some  familiar  scene,  and  then, 
with  almost  prophetic  emphasis,  utters  to  the  charmed 
ear  a  high  lesson  or  sublime  truth.  In  that  pensive  hymn 
in  which  he  contrasts  Man's  transitory  being,  with  Na- 
ture's perennial  life,  solemn  and  affecting  as  are  the  im- 


316 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


ages,  they  but  serve  to  deepen  the  simple  monition  at  the 

close : 

"  So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes,  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  «o  not  like  the  quarry  slave  at  ni'^ht, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unf  dtering  tru^t,  approach  thy  grave, 
>         Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams." 

In  "  The  Fountain,"  after  a  descriptive  sketch  that 
brings  its  limpid  flow  and  its  flowery  banks  almost  pal- 
pably before  us,  how  exquisite  is  the  chronicle  that  fol- 
lows !  Guided  by  the  poet,  we  behold  that  gushing 
stream,  ages  past,  in  the  solitude  of  the  old  woods,  when 
canopied  by  the  hickory  and  plane,  the  humming-bird 
playing  amid  its  spray,  and  visited  only  by  the  wolf, 
who  comes  to  "  lap  its  waters,"  the  deer  who  leaves  her 
"  delicate  foot-print,"  on  its  marge,  and  the  "  slow-paced 
bear  that  stopt  and  drank,  and  leaped  across."  Then  the 
savage  war-cry  drowns  its  murmur,  and  the  wounded 
foe  man  creeps  slowly  to  its  brink  to  "  slake  his  death- 
thirst."  Ere  long  a  hunter's  lodge  is  built  "  with  poles 
and  boughs,  beside  the  crystal  well,"  and  at  length  the 
lonely  place  is  surrounded  with  the  tokens  of  civilization : 

"  White  cottages  were  seen 
With  rose  trees  at  the  windows  ;  barns  from  which 
Swelled  loud  and  shrill  the  cry  of  chanticleer, 
Pastures  where  rolled  and  neighed  the  lordly  horse, 
And  white  flocks  browsed  and  bleated. 
****** 

.    .    .    Blue-eyed  girls 
Brought  pails,  and  dipped  them  in  thy  crystal  pool, 
And  children,  ruddy  cheeked  and  flaxen  haired, 
Gathered  the  glistening  cowslip  from  its  edge." 


BRYANT. 


217 


Thus  the  minstrel,  even 

"  From  the  gushing  of  a  simple  fount, 
Has  reasoned  to  the  mighty  universe." 

What  a  just  respect  for  humanity,  recognizing  its  sa- 
cred claims  with  poetic  emphasis,  breathes  in  the  "  Disin- 
terred Warrior :" 

"  Gather  him  to  his  grave  again, 

And  solemnly  and  softly  lay, 
Beneath  the  verdure  of  the  plain, 

The  warrior's  scattered  bones  away, 
Pay  the  deep  homage  taught  of  old, 

The  homage  of  man's  heart  to  death, 
JVor  dare  to  trifle  with  the  mould 

Once  hallowed  by  the  Almighty's  breath." 

The  very  rhythm  of  the  stanzas  "  to  a  Waterfowl," 
gives  the  impression  of  its  flight.  Like  the  bird's  sweep- 
ing wing,  they  float  with  a  calm  and  majestic  cadence  to 
the  ear.  We  see  that  solitary  wanderer  of  the  "  cold 
thin  atmosphere;"  we  watch,  almost  with  awe,  its  serene 
course,  until  "  the  abyss  of  heaven  has  swallowed  up  its 
form,"  and  then  gratefully  echo  the  bard's  consoling  in- 
ference : 

"  He  who  from  zone  to  zone, 

Guides  through  the  trackless  air  thy  certain  flight, 

In  the  long  way  that  I  must  tread  alone, 

Will  guide  my  steps  aright." 

But  it  is  unnecessary  to  cite  from  pages  so  familiar ; 
or  we  might  allude  to  the  grand  description  of  Freedom, 
and  the  beautiful  "  Hymn  to  Death,"  as  among  the  noblest 
specimens  of  modern  verse.  The  great  principle  of  Bry- 
ant's faith  is  that 

"  Eternal  love  doth  keep 
In  his  complacent  arms,  the  earth,  the  air,  the  deep." 

To  set  forth  in  strains  the  most  attractive  and  lofty,  this 
glorious  sentiment,  is  the  constant  aim  of  his  poetry. 


318 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE  POETS. 


Gifted. must  be  the  man  who  is  loyal  to  so  high  a  voca- 
tion. From  the  din  of  outward  activity,  the  vain  turmoil 
of  mechanical  life,  it  is  delightful  and  ennobling  to  turn  to 
a  true  poet, — one  who  scatters  flowers  along  our  path,  and 
lifts  our  gaze  to  the  stars, — breaking,  by  a  word,  the  spell  of 
blind  custom,  so  that  we  recognize  once  more  the  original 
glory  of  the  Universe,  and  hear  again  the  latent  music  of 
our  own  souls.  This  high  service  has  Bryant  fulfilled. 
It  will  identify  his  memory  with  the  loveliest  scenes  of 
his  native  land,  and  endear  it  to  her  children  forever. 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.  S.  FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW-YORK. 


i. 

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75  cents. 

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LETTERS  FROM  NEW-YORK.    Seventh  edition. 

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III. 

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IV. 

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"  For  sound  moral  instruction  and  practical  good  sense,  we  know  of  no 
work  of  its  class  worthy  to  be  compared  to  it." — N.  Y.  Tribune. 

BIOGRAPHIES  OF  GOOD  WIVES.    Third  edition. 

"  50  cents. 

*  We  commend  this  pleasing  collection  to  all  those  women  who  are  ambi- 
tious, like  its  subjects,  to  become  good  wives."— S.  Patriot. 

VI. 

HISTORY  OF  THE  CONDITION  OF  WOMEN, 

in  various  Ages  and  Nations.    2  vols.    Fifth  edition.    75  cts. 
"  Information  as  to  the  past  and  present  condition  of  one  half  the  human 
race,  put  together  in  that  lively  and  attractive  form  which  is  sure  to  grow  up 
beneath  the  hand  of  Mrs.  Child." 

VII. 

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in  Prose  and  Verse,  for  Children  of  various  ages.    37  £  cts.  each. 
"  A  collection  of  gems  in  which  sparkle  all  the  beauties  of  truth,  holiness 
and  love,  to  attract  the  mind  of  youth  in  its  first  unfoldings." 

vni. 

FACT  AND  FICTION.    A  collection  of  Stories.  75 

cents. 

a  There  is  a  fresh  and  loveable  heartiness  in  this  book — there  is  music  in 
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free,  unrestrained  outpourings  of  the  enlightened  heart  of  a  poet,  an  artist, 
and  a  woman." — Tribune. 

IX. 

MEMOIRS  OF  MADAME  DE  STAEL  AND  OF 

MADAME  EOLAND.  A  new  edition,  revised  and  enlarged. 
50  cents. 


PUBLISHED  BY   C.   S.   FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW-YORK. 


THE  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  NIGHTS;  OR, 

THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS'  ENTERTAINMENTS.  Translated 
by  Rev.  Edward  Forster.  With  an  Explanatory  and  Histo- 
rical Introduction,  by  G.  M.  Bussey.  Carefully  revised  and  cor- 
rected, with  some  additions,  amendments,  and  illustrative  notes, 
from  the  work  of  E.  W.  Lane.  Illustrated  with  Twenty  large 
Engravings  from  designs  by  De  Moraine,  and  numerous  smaller 
Wood  Cuts.    In  three  volumes. 

Contents* 


VOL, 

INTRODUCTION. 

THE  SULTAN  OF  THE  INDIES,  THE  8UL- 
TANESS  SHEHRAZADE  AND  HER  SIS- 
TER DINARZADE. 

THE  OX,  THE  ASS,  AND  THE  LABORER. 

THE  MERCHANT  AND  THE  GENIE. 

THE  FIRST  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  GAZELLE. 

THE  SECOND  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  TWO 
BLACK  DOGS. 

THE  THIRD  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  MULE. 

THE  FISHERMAN  AND  THE  GENIE. 

THE  GREEK  KING  AND  DODBAN  THE 
PHYSICIAN. 

THE  HUSBAND  AND  THE  PARROT. 

THE  VIZIER  WHO  WAS  PUNISHED. 

THE  YOUNG  KING  OF  THE  BLACK  ISLES. 

GANEM.  THE  SLAVE  OF  LOVE. 


THE  ENCHANTED  HORSE. 

THE  PORTER,  AND  THE  THREE  LADIB3 

OF  BAGDAD. 
THE  FIRST  ROYAL  CALENDER. 
THE  SECOND  ROYAL  CALENDER. 
THE  ENVIOUS  MAN  AND  THE  ENVIED. 
THE  THIRD  ROYAL  CALENDER. 
STORY  OF  ZOBEIDE. 
STORY  OF  AMINA. 

NOUREDDIN    AND    ENIS    ELJELIS,  THB 

BEAUTIFUL  PERSIAN. 
THE  THREE  APPLES. 
THE  LADY  WHO  WAS  MURDERED. 
NOUREDDIN  AND  HIS   SON,  AND  SHEM- 

SEDDIN   AND    HIS    DAUGHTER  J  BED- 

REDDIN   HASSAN    AND    THB  dUEEN 

OF  BEAUTY. 


THE  LITTLE  HUMPBACK. 

THE  CHRISTIAN  MERCHANT'S  STORY. 

STORY  OF  THE  SULTAN'S  PURVEYOR. 

STORY  OF   THE  JEWISH  PHYSICIAN. 

STORY  TOLD  BY  THE  TAILOR. 

STORY  OF  THE  BARBER. 

THE  BARBER'S  FIRST  BROTHER. 

THE  BARBER'S  SECOND  BROTHER. 

THE  BARBER'S  THIRD  BROTHER. 

THE  BARBER'S  FOURTH  BROTHER. 


THE  BARBER'S  FIFTH  BROTHER. 
THE  BARBER'S  SIXTH  BROTHER. 
CAMARALZAMAN  AND  BADOURA. 
PRINCE  AMGIAD  AND  PRINCE  ASSAD. 
THE  SEVEN  VOYAGES  OF  SINDBAD  TH& 
SAILOR. 

PRINCE  AHMED  AND  THE  FAIRY  PARI- 

BANOU. 
ABOU  HASSAN,  THE  WAG. 
ALI  COG1A,  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BAGDAD. 


ALI  EBN  BECAR  AND  JHEMSELNIHAR. 
ALADDIN,  OR  THE  WONDERFUL  LAMP. 
ADVENTURES  OF  HAROUN  ALRASHID. 
BABA  ABDALLAH. 
SIDI  NOUMAN. 
COGIA  HASSAN  ALHABBAL. 
PRINCESS  GULNARE  OF  THE  SEA. 
KING  BEDER  BASIM  AND  THE  PRINCESS 
GIOHARA. 


ALI  BABA  AND  THE  FORTY  ROBBERS. 
PRINCE  ZEYN  ALASNAM  AND  THE  KINO 

OF  THE  GENII. 
PRINCE  CODADAD  AND  HIS  BROTHERS. 
THE  PRINCESS  OF  DERYABAR. 
THE  THREE  SISTERS. 

PRINCESS    PERIZADE    AND    HER  BRO- 
THERS. 
CONCLUSION. 


"  A  beautiful  American  reprint  of  a  book  which  furnishes,  perhaps,  as  much  of  the 
'  stuff  that  dreams  are  made  of,'  as  any  other  that  we  could  mention.  This  has  long 
been  needed  and  wished  for,  and  the  book  produced  is  just  what  was  wanted.  Paper 
and  print  unexceptionable  ;  illustrations  graceful  and  suggestive,  and  price  extreme- 
ly moderate;  nothing  mars  the  pleasure  of  possessing  a  work  without  which  not 
only  no  library,  but  no  youthful  imagination,  can  be  considered  thoroughly  fur- 
nished.''— Union  Mag. 

"  The  republication  of  these  fascinating  stories,  in  so  good  and  cheap  a  form,  will 
be  very  acceptable  to  the  community.  No  good  American  edition,  to  our  knowledge, 
has  as  yet  been  published,  and  it  has  been  difficult  to  find  it,  except  in  the  very  ex- 
pensive illustrated  French  or  English  editions  "-^Boston  Daily  Adv. 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.  S.  FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW-YORK. 


THE  ARABIAN  NIGHTS'  ENTERTAINMENTS  ; 

OR,  THE  THOUSAND  AND  ONE  NIGHTS.  Anew  Edition, 
carefully  revised  and  corrected  ;  with  an  Explanatory  and  Histo- 
rical Introduction ;  and  many  additions,  amendments,  and  illus- 
trative Notes.    Illustrated  with  numerous  Engravings.    3  vols. 

"  The  best  edition  of  this  most  popular  of '  story  books '  ever  published  in  this 
country." — Tribune. 

"  Lord  Byron,  to  the  end  of  his  days,  declared  that  no  dish  was  so  palatable  to 
him  as  the  homely  one  of  bacon  and  greens — and  why?  because  he  had  eaten  of  it  in 
his  youth,  and  the  days  of  his  youth  came  back  with  the  savory  gusto  of  the  food 
that  had  pleased  his  fresh  and  eager  taste.  If  the  Arabian  Nights  had  no  other 
claim,  we  might  set  up  a  similar  one  for  this  new  edition  of  so  old  a  friend  ;  but  the 
delight  with  which  new  readers  seize  upon  the  fascinating  tissue,  is  no  whit  less  than 
that  which  enchains  a  circle  of  Arabs  as  they  sit  round  their  fire  in  the  desert,  for- 
getting the  toils  and  hardships  of  the  day  in  the  splendid  creations  of  Oriental 
fancy.  Stories  of  Genii  and  Afrites,  enchanted  horses,  and  women  whose  beauty 
causes  the  beholder  to  faint  away;  are  as  easy  to  believe  as  ever,  and  possess  a  power 
over  the  imagination  which  will  last  as  long  as  human  nature.  The  present  edition 
is  of  the  translation  of  Kev.  Edward  Forster,  with  various  notes  and  amendments 
from  Lane  and  others,  and  an  explanatory  and  historical  introduction,  in  which  are 
embodied  many  curious  and  interesting  particulars.  We  ought  further  to  mention, 
that  the  good  taste  of  the  translator  and  editors,  has  prompted  them  to  alter  certain 
passages  which,  without  adding  to  the  value  of  the  work  in  any  one's  estimation, 
were  considered  as  blemishes  by  the  refined  reader  of  the  present  day.  The  work  is 
elegantly  done,  and  we  doubt  not  will  prove  highly  acceptable,  as  supplying  a  want 
long  felt  here." — Inquirer. 

"  This  is  a  most  beautiful  edition  of  a  work,  which  has  given  perhaps  as  much 
pleasure,  as  any  that  ever  was  penned.  We  shall  never  forget  the  joy, 
mingled  with  wonder,  with  which  we  pored  over  its  pages  in  our  boyhood;  and 
though  some  persons  object  to  such  reading  for  children,  we  do  not,  because  we  are 
not  conscious  of  ever  havirg  received  the  least  injury  from  it  ourselves.  We  are 
fearful  that  the  proscription  of  such  works,  and  the  substitution  of  those  of  a  more 
practical  character  for  young  people,  would  be  somewhat  injurious  to  the  finer  and 
more  imaginative  portion  of  the-  mind.  A  blending  of  the  two  classes  seems  to  us 
better  than  a  prohibition  of  either.  The  present  edition  is  admirably  adapted  for 
young  eyes,  the  type  being  large  and  clear,  and  the  text  illustrated  by  plates." — Sat. 
Post. 

"A  convenient  and  handsome  edition  of  this  most  popular  specimen  of  romantic 
fiction  has  long  been  a  desideratum.  There  are  very  expensive  English  illustrated 
1  Arabian  Nights,'  and  very  cheap,  badly  printed  American  oiies;  but  any  between 
the  two,  combining  economy  with  elegance,  were  not  obtainable  until  the  present 
issue.  Ihe  publishers  have  met  a  decided  want,  and  in  a  very  judicious  style.  It  is 
a  translation  by  Kev.  Edward  Forster;  there  is  a  valuable  explanatory  and  histo- 
rical introduction,  by  G.  M.  Bussey — the  whole  revised,  and  additions,  and  illustra- 
tive notes,  adopted  from  Lane's  excellent  work  The  volumes  are  embellished  with 
twenty  large  engravings,  from  designs  by  De  Moraine,  and  many  small  wood  cuts. 
It  is  very  neatly  printed,  and  sold  at  the  low  rate  of  three  shillings  a  part." — Home 
Journal. 

"Messrs.  Francis  &  Co.  have  commenced  the  republication  of  this  famous 
story-book,  which  can  hardly  fail  to  secure  as  general  favor  at  the  present  day,  as 
former  editions  have  met  with  from  former  generations.  In  addition  to  the  attrac- 
tion of  the  book  its  If — and  who  that  has  once  read  the  '  delightful  stories,'  which  the 
Princess  Shehrazade  'so  well  knew,'  but  retains  most  agreeable  reminiscences  of 
them — there  is,  in  the  present  editiori,  an  elaborate  explanatory  and  historical  in- 
troduction, together  with  numerous  illustrations,  both  large  and  small,  which  add 
not  a  little  to  the  effect  of  the  story.  For  Young  America — that  portion  at  least 
which  is  so  far  free  from  the  influence  of  modern  '  progress '  as  to  take  delight  in 
what  delighted  their  fathers  and  grandfathers  before  them — no  publication  of  the 
present,  day  will  have  greater  charms  than  this  new  edition  of  the  world-famous 
Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments." — N.  Y.  Gazette. 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.   S.   FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW-YORK. 


THE  BOOK  OF  ENTERTAINMENT,— OF  Cu- 
riosities AND  WONDERS  IN  NATURE,  ART  AND  MIND; 
Drawn  from  the  most  authentic  sources,  and  carefully  revised. 

Forming  a  thick  volume  of  nearly  one  thousand  pages.  Illustra- 
ted by  more  than  one  hundred  Engravings. 

A    PORTION    OF    THE  CONTENTS. 


Part  /.—Thebes,  its  origin  and  rise, 
extent  and  internal  arrangement,  hun- 
dred gates;  its  splendor,  decline  and 
ruin,  &c.  Manners  and  Customs  of  the 
Irish  peasantry.  Abstinence.  Affec- 
tion. Agricultural  operations.  Useful 
Arts  described.  History  of  the  Battle 
of  Cressy ;  of  China  and  its  customs  ; 
of  the  Falls  of  Niagara*  French  Gyp- 
sies ;  Hindoo  Pilgrims  ;  Leaning  Tower 
of  Saragossa;  Lion  of  Africa;  Beaver 
Hat  manufacture  ;  Usefulness  of  Birds  ; 
Causes  of  the  Earth's  fertility;  Crops, 
their  preservation,  &c  Experimental 
Science;  Feats  of  strength,  Fortitude 
of  Women;  City  of  Mexico,  its  great 
temple,  idolatry  of  the  people,  magnifi- 
cence of  the  King,  besieged  by  the  Span- 
iards, mode  <>f  writing.  &c.  Voyage  on 
the  Mississippi.  New-Castle  Coal 
Trade.  &c,  &c. 

Part  II — An  account  of  the  City  of 
Venice,  giving  a  history  of  its  origin, 
rise,  greatness,  and  decline,  with  a  des- 
cription of  the  interior  of  the  city,  and 
the  most  remarkable  public  and  private 
buildings.  Excursion  in  Arabia.  Ca- 
thedrals of  Auxere  and  of  Kirkwall. 
Cordova,  in  S;>ain.  Elephants,  and  the 
manner  of  catching  them.  Blackbirds. 


Errors  and  superstitions.  Coroboree 
Dance.  Gizzard  in  birds.  History  and 
description  of  Kirkwall.  Man  over- 
board. Mines  of  Great  Britain.  Mer- 
maid. Voice  in  man  and  animal.  Pas- 
senger Pigeon  of  America.  Account  of 
oysters,  muscles,  and  cockles.  Greek 
islands.  Useful  arts — the  ox  and  cow; 
milk  and  butter;  making  cheese.  Ac- 
count of  the  sheep,  goat,  and  hog.  Wan- 
derings in  the  American  forests,  &c,  &c. 

Part  ///—Account  of  Madrid;  its 
capture  by  Napoleon,  situation,  and 
form.  Palaces  and  Churches.  Prado, 
and  streets,  &c.  The  Main-Truck,  or 
leap  for  life.  Lady  Harriet  Ackland, 
and  her  sufferings.  Animals  used  as 
food.  Eugene  Aram.  Aromatic  Vine- 
gar. Savings  Banks.  History  of  Bees. 
Chinese  duck-boats.  Method  of  pre- 
paring Coffee,  Chocolate,  &c.  City  of 
Cologne.  Different  Dispositions.  Re- 
marks on  Cooking.  Egyptian  mode  of 
hatching  eggs.  Female  Excellence  :  a 
tale  of  real  life.  Moscow,  and  its 
Churches.  Mode  of  preserving  Insects. 
Account  of  the  Coast  of  Ireland.  Rat- 
isbon.  St.  Robert's  Chapel  and  Cave. 
Cathedral  of  Winchester;  of  Durham; 
Colchester,  &c.  &c. 


AMONG  THE    ENGRAVINGS  ARE  THE  FOLLOWING! 


City  of  Muscat. 
Western  Steamer. 
Breaking  Stone  on  a  Man's 

Chest. 
African  Lion. 
Manufacture  of  a  Hat. 
Eltham  Palace 
Norris  Castle. 
Agricultural  Instruments. 
Rocking  Stone. 
Mississippi  Overflowing. 
Gypsies. 

Mexican  Paintings. 
Russian  Travelling. 
Hieroglyphics. 
Windmill. 
Plains  of  Cressy. 
Ruins  of  Karnac 
Bridge  of  Sighs. 


Roman  Coins. 
Shells. 

Launceston  Castle. 

Mowing. 

Reaping. 

Inclined  Plane. 

Mushrooms. 

Churns. 

Cheese-Press. 

Sir  Francis  Bacon. 

Stones  of  Stenis. 

Stornaway. 

Stromness. 

Catching  Elephants. 

The  Ceylon  Elephant. 

Views    of    New  South 

Wales. 
Mermaids. 
Women  of  Scio. 


Wild  Pigeons. 

Snowdon. 

Fairhead. 

Ducal  Palace,  Venice, 

Colonnade,  Venice. 

Palace  of  the  EscuriaL 
|  Coffee  Tree, 
j  Dropping  WelL 
|  Water  Clocks. 

Snake  Charmers. 
,  James  Crichton. 
!  Pearl  Fishery. 

Palace  at  Madrid. 

Church  of  St.  Basil,  Mob- 
I  cow. 

Natives  of  New  South 
i  Wales. 

Rocks  of  Ragherry. 
&c,  &c,  &c. 


*  Made  up  from  all  sources,  describing  whatever  is  most  wonderful  and  worthy 
of  admiration  in  the  world,  it  cannot  fail  to  prove  highly  attractive,  especially  to 
the  young,  for  whom,  of  course,  it  was  mainly  intended,  though  ail  persons  will  find 
in  it  much  matter  of  decided  interest."— Journal 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.  S.  FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW- YORK. 


THE  BOOK  OF  ENTERTAINMENT —OF  CU- 

RIOSITIES  AND  WONDERS  IN  NATURE,  ART  AND  MIND. 
Drawn  from  the  most  authentic  sources,  and  carefully  revised. 

Second  Series* 

Another  volume,  of  nearly  a  thousand  pages,  illustrated  by  more 
than  one  hundred  engravings. 

A    PORTION    OF    THE  CONTENTS. 


Part  /.—Natural  and  Civil  History  of 
Ceylon;  the  Natives;  Boodhism;  Trial  by 
Jury,  &c.  Sugar  maple.  Coverings  of  An- 
imals. History  of  the  Arch.  Arabia  and 
Mocha.  Attar  of  Roses.  Fall  of  Baby- 
lon. Instinct  of  Birds.  The  Hermit  of 
Switzerland.  Cathedrals  of  Caen  and 
Saragossa.  Colombo  in  Ceylon.  Debt 
and  Misery.  Division  of  Labor.  Con- 
vent at  Saragossa.  Female  Fortitude. 
Festival  of  the  Bairam.  Mode  of  meas- 
uring heights.  Manufacture  of  Pottery. 
Manners  and  Customs  of  the  Turks. 
Mexico,  account  of  the  modern  city,  its 
streets,  churches,  police,  population,  &c. 
Hotbeds,  Hothouses,  Conservatories,  &c. 
Woman,  the  solace  of  man.  Robert 
Raikes.   Poisonous  Plants,  &c. 

Part  II — Cemeteries  and  Burial  in 
Turkey.  Information  concerning  Barley, 
Bread,  Vermicelli,  Brewing,  Charcoal 
Coal  and  Coal  Mines.  Anger  and  Mad- 
ness. Account  of  Benares,  Basle,  High- 
lands and  Islands  of  Scotland,  Owhyhee, 
and  its  Volcano,  Liege,  Londonderry  and 
its  famous  Siege,  Luxor  aud  its  Ruins, 
Malvern  Hills,  Thebes  and  its  Ruins, 
Karnak  and  its  Temples,  Society  Isl- 
ands, &c.  Anecdotes  and  Tales  of  Bona- 
parte, Addison,  Burke,  Bishop  Hall,  Jen- 


ner,  Irving,  Johnson,  Lavater,  Locke, 
Mungo  Park,  Wilberforce,  &c.  Old  Cas- 
tles, viz:  Dunvegan,  Ennandowan, 
Shirbourn,  &c.  Dialogue  between  a 
Clergyman  and  Deist.  Druidical  Re- 
mains. Old  Cathedrals,  Ely,  St.  David's, 
&c.  Clock  at  Rouen.  Druidical  Crom- 
lechs. Wild  Beasts,  Rhinoceros,  Ele- 
phant, Lemming,  &c.  Gypsies.  History 
of  Writing.  Natives  of  Swan  River. 
Skating  Soldiers  of  Norway.  &c.  &c. 

Part  III— Account  of  the  City  of 
Brussels,  its  history,  situation,  and  cli- 
mate, streets,  squares,  parks,  palaces, 
public  buildings,  manufactures,  &c,  with 
a  description  of  the  Battle  of  Waterloo. 
Agriculture  and  Gardening  in  Japan. 
Allahabad  in  India.  Description  of  Do- 
mesticated Birds;  the  common  fowl; 
the  Turkey  and  Guinea  Hen  ;  the  Goose 
and  Duck ;  the  Pigeon.  Early  Rising. 
Deaths  of  eminent  persons  Forest  Trees. 
Greek  Islands.  Chios,  or  Scio.  Harvest 
in  Nassau.  Hog  Hunting  in  the  East 
Indies.  Culture  and  Manufacture  of 
Indigo.  Instances  of  insect  sagacity. 
Experiments  concerning  Jugglers.  Stu- 
dy of  Material  Nature.  Self-taught 
Mathematician.  Great  Square  in  the 
City  of  Munich.    &c.   &c.  &c. 


AMONG  THE  ENGRAVINGS  ARE  THE  FOLLOWING 


Church  of  N.  S.  de  Gua- 
dalupe. Mexico. 

View  of  jMocha. 

Natives  of  Ceylon. 

View  of  Colombo,  Ceylon, 

Measuring  Heights  and 
Distances. 

Different  Cider  Mills. 

Potters  at  Work. 

Festival  of  the  Bairam. 

Street  in  Rouen. 

Harbor  of  Havre- 
Turkish  Funeral. 

Etruscan  Vases. 

Charcoal  Burning. 

Skating  Soldiers  of  Nor- 
way. 

Ruins  of  the  Memnonium. 

The  Lemming 

Colossal  Statues  at  Thebes. 


The  Druid  Stone. 
Dunvegan  Castle. 
Orders  of  Architecture. 
Bridge  of  Saragossa. 
City  of  Mexico. 
Cathedral  in  Mexico. 
Mexican  Water  Carrier. 
Pulque  Plant. 
Coining  Press. 
Shawl  Goat. 
Indian  Corn. 
Fort  at  Allahabad,  E.  L 
Hop  Picking, 
Nimbus,  from  Teniers. 
Abbey  of  St.  Stephen. 
Volcanoes  in  Owhyhee. 
Shirbourn  Castle. 
Ruins  at  St.  David's. 
Ennandowan  Castle. 
Ruins  at  Medeenet-Habou. 


Colonnade  at  Luxor. 
Rhinoceros  and  Elephants. 
Egyptian  Vases. 
Domestic  Fowls. 
Hog  Hunting. 
Place-  Royale,  Brussels. 
Botanic  Garden,  Brussels 
Indigo  Works  in  S.  Amer. 
Diamond  Cut.  and  Polish. 
Carlisle  Castle. 
Town  Hall  at  Bolougne. 
Barnacles. 
Crystals  of  Snow. 
The  Sumach. 
Crossbows  and  Arrows. 
Night  Scene  in  N.  S.  W. 
Dunluce  Castle. 
Throwing  the  Lasso. 
Modifications  of  Clouds. 
&c.      &c.  &c. 


u  The  contents  of  this  very  thick  volume,  which  contains  a  great  amount  of  read- 
ing, are  both  instructive  and  entertaining.  It  is  admirably  adapted  to  improve  the 
mind,  and  to  give  the  readers,  especially  the  young,  a  taste  for  useful  information, 
and  an  inducement  io  the  further  pursuit  of  practical  knowledge." 


PUBLISHED  BY  C.   S.   FRANCIS  AND  CO.,  NEW-YORK. 

THE  WORKS  OF  MRS.  HEMANS.    A  Complete 

and  uniform  edition,  with  a  Memoir  by  her  Sister.  In  7  vols, 
cabinet  size,  with  Portrait.  Price  $4,  in  neat  cloth,  or  on  su- 
perfine paper,  with  illuminated  titles,  $7,  in  half  morocco  or 
calf.  Also,  the  6ame  edition,  without  the  Memoir,  in  3  vols. 
$3,  cloth  gilt,  or  $7  in  morocco. 

Each  volume  may  be  had  as  a  separate  and  complete  book, 
price  62£  cents,  viz  : 

I. — MEMOIR  OF  MRS.  HEMANS.   By  her  Sister. 

II  — TALES  AND  HISTORIC  SCENES,  &o. 

III.  — THE  SIEGE  OF  VALENCIA;  THE  SCEPTIC,  &c. 

IV.  — THE  FOREST  SANCTUARY;  DE  CHATILLON,  &c. 
V.-RECORDS  OF  WOMAN  ;  VESPERS  OF  PALERMO,  &c. 

VI.  — SONGS  OF  THE  AFFECTIONS;  NATIONAL  LYRICS,  &c. 

VII.  — SONGS  AND  LYRICS,  SCENES  AND  HYMNS  OF  LIFE,  &c. 

THE  BOOK  OF  ENTERTAINMENT —OF  Cu- 
riosities AND  WONDERS  IN  NATURE,  ART  AND  MIND: 
Drawn  from  the  most  authentic  sources.  Carefully  revised,  and 
illustrated  by  more  than  one  hundred  Engravings.  One  thick 
volume,  of  nearly  a  thousand  pages.  $1,25. 

"  A  handsome  volume,  containing  a  fund  of  information  pleasant  to  the 
young.'' — N.  Y.  Observer. 

SAILOR'S  LIFE  AND  SAILORS'  YARNS.  By 

Capt.  Ringbolt. 
Containing — A  Sailor's  Life — Nathan  Smith,  the  man  that  was  laughed  at — 
Capt  Dodge — The  Pretty  Missionary — Trnn  Brown,  or  Superstition — Harry 
Spanker's  Love  Story — Charley  Brail's  True  Story — David  Williams,  the 
Steward — A  Bargain's  a  Bargain— The  Old  Sailor — Vessels  in  Distress — 
Missing  Vessels— Sailors'  Rights  and  Sailors'  Wrongs. 

A  PICTURE  OF  NEW-YORK;   With  a  Short 

Account  of  Places  in  its  Vicinity.  Designed  as  a  Guide  to  citi- 
zens and  Strangers.  With  36  Engravings  of  the  principal  public 
buildings,  and  a  Map  of  the  city. 

THE  FAIRY  GIFT.    A  choice  collection  of  Fairy 

Tales.       By   Charles    Perrault,    Madame  D'Aulnoy,  M. 
Fenelon,  and  others.    Illustrated  by  200  Engravings,  from  de- 
signs by  the  most  celebrated  French  artists.    75  cents. 
Containing— \.  Princess  Minikin.     II.  Prince  Elfin.      IT.  Prince  Sincere. 
IV.  Blanche  and  Vern.ilion.    V.  Prince  Desire  and  Princess  Mignonetta 
VI.  Toads  and  1'iamonds.    VII.  The  Beneficent  Frog.    VIII.  Graciosa  and 
Percinet.    IX.  Princess  Maia.    X.  The  White  Cat,    XI.  Babiola.  XII 
The  Master  Cat.   XIII.  Prince  Cherry. 

THE  FAIRY  GEM.    A  companion  to  the  above. 

By  the  same  authors.  Similarly  illustrated.  75  cents. 
Containing— I.  The  Blue  Bird.  II.  Little  Red  Riding-Hood.  IIT.  Septimus. 
IV.  Blue  Beard.  V.  The  Yellow  Dwarf.  VI.  Visit  to  the  Island  of  Plea- 
sure. VII.  Cinderella.  VIJI.  The  Hind  in  the  Forest.  IX.  The  Good 
Little  Mouse.  X.  Fair  One  with  Golden  Hair.  XI.  Princess  Rosetta.  XIL 
Sleeping  Beauty.    XIII.  Hop  o'-my-Thumb. 


